


Star Trek Odyssey - At the Gates of Troy

by Ulyssesemmel



Series: Star Trek: Odyssey [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Anachronistic, Artificial Intelligence, Cyborgs, Space Opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-11-07 16:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20820323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulyssesemmel/pseuds/Ulyssesemmel
Summary: Owen Vance has left Voyager behind to rescue Ensign Kang from her alien AI captor, but to reach her, he'll have to cross the Argus Cluster. The only way to cross this radioactive realm is to hitch a ride with the primitives that sail its mysterious tachyon winds in anachronistic sail ships. But can he make it to her before the radiation boils him alive? Or, will she find her own way to escape?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third episode in an on-going series. Episode I is Star Trek Odyssey - On the Isle of the Sun.

STAR TREK

ODYSSEY

At the Gates of Troy

CHAPTER 1

_On a clear night, blue and violet stars crowd the sky from horizon to jagged horizon, but not a glimmer of light falls on the rugged terrain. The heavenly host illuminates only the pearly fog that pours over the distant ridgeline, creating cascades of luminous, midnight-blue mist that vanish into the black shadow of the vale._

_Under cover of darkness, the mist permeates the vast and ancient caldera, making its way by canyon and crevice, slope and valley, ever deeper into the labyrinthine depths. It creeps quiet through the tangled groves of green and growing things that thrive in the lower reaches, finally seeping into the hidden glade where the planet's only resident makes her abode. The mist emerges from the rocky undergrowth on all sides, resplendent in the starlight once more, collecting on the hot springs and trickling streams of her private paradise._

_The sole resident makes her way over the treacherous terrain in long, confident strides, surefooted in the pitch black. She embraces the chilly breeze, relishes the bite of it on her soft skin through her thin silks, the sight of it stirring the tumescent fog on the water, the music of it rustling the crystalline stems of the undergrowth, creating a soft chorus of tinkles and chimes._

_All in all, it's a fantastic night for a hot bath._

_She reaches the shore of her favorite hot spring and savors the humidity of its vapors for a moment, then she steps out of her braided sandals and dips her feet into the shallows. The near-scalding water caresses her silky-smooth calves, making the cool breeze feel suddenly much chillier in contrast._

_She brings her slender hand to her left shoulder and unclasps the fastener of her robe. The garment slips from her body like quicksilver and she catches it over her forearm as it descends, careful not to let the garment's hem touch the water. She casts it gracefully to the shore behind her and, naked, she wades deeper into the pool._

_The water comes halfway up her sinewy thighs, and the fog shrouds her bare figure up to her proud shoulders. She lifts her fingers to the crown of her head and draws out four gold-leaf hairpins, tossing the handful carelessly over her shoulder. They land together neatly on her discarded robe. Unfettered, her long, crimson hair tumbles loose down the curve of her back, all the way to the narrowest point of her lissome waist._

_A few more steps, and the water crests over the swell of her hips. She takes a moment to appreciate the contrast of the cold air and the hot water, then she spreads her arms wide and falls gracefully backwards into the pool, submerging her statuesque form fully in the scouring heat of the mineral bath._

_She floats to the surface on her back and looks up into the fog, willfully limiting her vision until all she can see is the near-uniform glow of starlight in the mist. Then she closes her eyes and extends her senses beyond the limitations of her corporeal vessel, probing the vast, cosmic web to divine the welfare of the little ones of the Argus Cluster._

_Far across the cluster, just outside of the protected borders of the Halo of Jovis, she spots a Refflik fleet on the move. Not satisfied with their petty conquests, the insolent pests are sailing upspin for Antwerb. She watches the swift progress of their ships; six dreadnaughts, four carriers, nine destroyers, and a swarm of escorts, skiffs, and sundry support vessels numbering four score and two, descending like clatterbeasts on their unsuspecting prey._

_She considers drumming up an ion storm to wash them out of space. Or, she could hit them with a soliton wave powerful enough to carry the remains of their shattered vessels clear back to their native star system. It's a tempting proposition, but there would be… consequences. The Refflik annoy her, but not enough to justify sowing chaos throughout the cluster just to thwart them from their petty conquests. She settles on merely slowing their progress to a crawl._

_In her mind's eye, she grasps the threads of tachyon wind that swirl through the cluster, and with a few careful tugs and tweaks, she diminishes the flow of tachyons converging on the Refflik sails. Throughout the cluster, sailors unlucky enough to depend on the same currents will find lackluster winds to drive their sails, but at least now the Antwerb are more likely to catch word of the invasion before it lands on their shores. If that isn't enough to put the Refflik upstarts in their place, she'll have to arrange more direct measures to teach them._

_Meanwhile, in the far outer marches upspin, there is an outsider ship skirting the limits of the cluster, its extracelestial technology warping the fringes of her web. The unique subspace signature radiating from its twin off-board nacelles is unfamiliar to her, as is the rather graceful tapered saucer of its primary hull. Not that the details of foreign starships interest her all that much. She's more than ready to rend the vessel bow to stern, should it stray any further into her realm._

_She doubts it will. She can feel its scanning beams probing her domain, taking in the frequent storms, the heavy radiation, and the unstable subspace geometry. It would have to be crewed by fools and idiots to brave this space with its temperamental warp field technology._

_Suddenly now, in the downspin backwaters of the Argus Cluster, light-years out from the nearest port of call, there is a new disturbance. She feels it like a bug in her hair. Something foreign has cropped up in her domain, its space-distorting presence sending a tachyon stream haywire._

_The foreign starship and the Refflik fleet are temporarily forgotten. This intruder has her undivided attention._

_She listens closely to the perturbations of subspace as they ripple through her tachyon web, painting a picture of a doorway in space; a door she has not seen in a very, very long time. She studies it more closely and notices a hapless vessel careening towards it, out of control, caught with their sails up in an ion storm. It's riding the haywire tachyon stream, bound to crash and burn when it comes too close to the distortion caused by the door…_

_Only, it doesn't. With a nimble twist, it leaps free of the current at the last possible moment._

_She smiles. Watching her little ones perform unexpected acts of daring-do like this never fails to brighten her mood. However, now, the broken vessel sits at the doorstep of the intruding portal, flashing prime numbers at it in greeting, like a curious baby bird chirping up at a razor-toothed vulf_. _This could prove… problematic. She focuses her senses, studying the sailboat more closely to judge whether its contact with the intruder might be catastrophic or merely unfortunate._

_The endless new configurations these children devise to travel her web never cease to amuse her. This one is Ilian in design if she's not mistaken. Its twin, bifurcated sails resemble butterfly wings. Like almost all of these interstellar sailboats, it is designed to catch the tachyons of her web, piggy-backing on their faster-than-light currents to bear it through space at superluminal velocities._

_The butterfly wings of the vessel are fastened to a fusion core sheathed in an orb of titanium alloys and run through with a spindle, linking the core to a cylindrical habitat with primitive ion thrusters at its base, and at its peak, a spade-shaped shield, scavenged together from exotic metals created by their long-extinct betters._

_A fanciful design, to be sure, but she assumes it must have its own logic. Sailors on her waters can seldom afford to indulge their whimsy._

_In all, it's not a large craft. The expanse of its sails dwarfs the scale of the cylinder and the spade, and like a butterfly, it appears at first glance to be little more than a conjoined pair of wings._

_She contemplates swatting it out of space. There isn't much she can do about the doorway on short notice, but the ship is firmly at her mercy. Ought she snuff it out to protect her realm from the contaminating influence it's about to meet?_

_She mulls over the option and decides it's a bit premature. The ship is alone and not well-appointed, and so it is unlikely to offer the intruder anything particularly useful, nor to be given anything overly dangerous in return._

_She decides to keep an eye on the situation as it develops. It's been ages since she's had contact with the Delurididug, and she's a little curious what scheme has brought them back to her domain._

_Whatever its intentions are, though, it's not likely to be good news for that little sailship. She wonders if they have any sense of the trap in which they are already caught._

<strike>-o--o--o-</strike>

On deck one, dorsal quadrant of the _FFC Hypereia_, the ship's crew stared at the image of the strange… thing… they were approaching, and they waited. The tension was stifling. Polidem did his best to keep his round eyes off of the uncanny blob of light on the big screen and fixed on his terminal, instead. He needed to devote his attention to his crewmates, who were presently approaching the thing in transorbital shuttles. But the temptation to stare at the image being captured in real time by the ship's telescopes was unbearable.

"What's their range, Polidem?" said Captain Solaad. He was sitting forward in the captain's chair, perched on an ovoid dais in the rear-center of the deck, overlooking the three concentric, tiered arcs that composed the curved geometry of the command deck. The outer bulkhead and most of the deckhead consisted of a heavily reinforced bank of transparent aluminum windows that showcased the dramatic starscape around them. If he craned his neck, Polidem could just make out a blot of light in the distance, between the _Hypereia's _central mast and lowered sails. That was it; the mysterious object, visible to the naked eye.

"Polidem!" Captain Solaad repeated, and Polidem snapped out of his reverie.

The Ilian consciously flattened his long ears to the side of his head to keep them from twitching in mortification at his lapse. He forced himself to focus on his terminal and run a range-finding algorithm between two of the objects flagged on his display.

"Um… thirteen hundred thirty-three flartags, Captain," said Polidem. "Both ships are braking as they close in on the… space hole… thing. What are we calling it, again?"

Captain Solaad's eyes narrowed as he studied the image of the hole in space on the big screen, its bright, violet-white heart shrouded in glowing red-brown dust. "Trouble," he said.

"Right," said Polidem. "Dr. Haxle's ship, _Idri _will run into Trouble in three… two…"

As if in the thrall of a powerful magnet, Polidem's wide-eyed gaze gravitated back to the big screen as a streak of white light entered the frame and collided with the space hole. The white streak of the _Idri's_ rocket exhaust poured into the object for an instant before the little black skiff followed it, tail first, into the hole, which flared bright for an instant, and then returned to its original state, as if Dr. Haxle's ship had never been there at all.

Polidem and the rest of the crew stared at the screen in mute awe for a moment.

"Focus, people," said the captain, and Polidem turned back to his own terminal.

"The _Reia Two _is holding station at two hundred thirty-seven _flartags_ from Troub-from the object, Captain," said Polidem.

Captain Solaad nodded. "Good. Qettal, call the _Reia Two _for me. Use video protocol."

"Aye aye, Captain," said Qettal.

The big screen flipped to the standard "calling…" glyph briefly before giving way to the cockpit of the _Reia Two,_ where First Mate Rajak and Quartermaster Neska drifted in their safety restraints.

"Hey, Cap," said Rajak. "How about that entrance? Leave it to Haxle to breach an unknown realm with his rockets hot."

Neska shrugged her slender shoulders. "Might not be a bad idea. Their rockets will slag anything blocking the far side, and they're facing the right direction if they have to beat a quick retreat. Besides, they never told us _not _to come in hot, did they?"

"Isn't exactly a friendly how-do-you-do, though, is it?" said Rajak.

"All the same," said Captain Solaad, "I'm more than happy to let Haxle's ship take that risk on our behalf. You two sure you want to go through with this?"

Rajak and Neska shared an apprehensive glance.

"Provided Doc calls us up soon with the all-clear?" said Rajak.

"Absolutely," said Neska.

"We can find another way," said Solaad. "We haven't even finished assessing the damage from the storm. There's bound to be another way to repair that sail."

"_And _the rudders?" Neska said doubtfully.

"Right, and the garden, too," said Solaad. He nodded a little too adamantly.

A tone sounded from Qettal's terminal. "Haxle's calling on the radio, sir," said Qettal.

Solaad let out a resigned sigh. "Put him on."

"We're in," came Dr. Haxle's voice, inflected with his highly cultured Alixindrian accent. "The passage was easy. No danger."

Solaad and his two lieutenants on the screen shared a meaningful look.

"Do you copy that?" said Dr. Haxle.

"We copy, Doc," said the captain. "Stand by. Don't contact the station until the other shuttle joins you."

"They're already calling me, though," said the doctor. "You're telling me to make them wait?"

"Damned straight," said Solaad. "It won't be long. Just stand by."

Haxle was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Well then, hurry it up, Rajak."

"Well, since you asked me nice," drawled Rajak.

"Haxle out," said the doctor, and he dropped the line.

Solaad regarded his trusted lieutenants for a moment, then said, "Remember what I told you."

"No unnecessary risks," said Neska.

"And don't let Haxle do anything stupid," said Rajak.

Solaad nodded. "Jovis' speed, you two."

Rajak and Neska nodded acknowledgment, and Rajak cut the signal.

Polidem turned to his terminal and saw the _Reia Two _was already back in motion. "They're approaching the, uh… space hole thing," said Polidem.

"Plutis sake, Polidem," said Solaad. "Just call it a wormhole."

Polidem exchanged a confused glance with Qettal. "_Worm hole_, sir? Where do worms come into it?"

"That's what they called it when they invited us inside, remember? It's probably a metaphor."

Polidem shrugged. "I guess I missed that bit? If that's like a hole eaten out by worms, wouldn't that make the universe like a rotting corpse?"

"Or a _hok_ fruit," said Qettal.

"Quit reading into it," said Solaad. "That's an order. Just focus on your sheking jobs, understood?"

"Aye, sir," said Polidem and Qettal in unison.

"_Reia Two _will pass through the 'worm hole'..." Polidem shuddered as he referred to the already terrifying object by the morbid term, "in three… two…"

On the big screen, the _Reia Two _drifted into view traveling at a much more leisurely pace than the _Idri_ had, engines dark, riding its momentum into the aperture. The wormhole flared bright again, and the _Reia Two _was gone.

A long, quiet moment stretched over the deck. Then, Captain Solaad drew his mobile out of his pocket and started tapping on the small screen.

"I'm laying in a new flight plan," he announced as he worked on his mobile.

Polidem called up the ship's course on his terminal so he could see the details the captain was inputting from his device.

"We'll flip and burn the rest of the way to the wormhole, full one gravity deceleration. We'll still overshoot by about ten thousand flartags, so we'll have to circle back. Shouldn't take more than thirty, forty spanns to reach a relative station, at which point we'll transition to spin gravity until the expedition returns."

The captain finished speaking, and a moment later, his full flight plan registered on Polidem's terminal. The captain made it sound so simple, but the procedure for bringing the fast-moving ship alongside the wormhole and transitioning from linear thrust to spinning end-over-end around the central core required over a hundred discrete steps, each of which had to be precisely timed and coordinated between the primary rockets, the maneuvering thrusters, and the spin servos. Polidem envied the captain's decades of experience that made procedures like this seem routine.

"Polidem, you take point on this," said Captain Solaad, rising to his feet.

Polidem's doe ears shot straight up. He spun around in his seat to meet the captain's gaze, hoping he'd misunderstood. The captain stepped down the ramp from the command seat, showing no sign of registering Polidem's distress.

"I'll be down in rudder control," said the captain. "You call me the instant things stop going according to plan, understood?"

Polidem nodded. "Uh huh, but maybe, that is… well…"

The captain paused and watched him, waiting for Polidem to come to a point.

Polidem met his expectant gaze for a moment and said, "Should be a walk in the park, sir." He took a deep, steadying breath and willed the tension out of his ears as he rose to his feet.

The captain nodded and turned toward the door. Polidem tried to evince a confident air as he ascended the steps to the command seat, but the moment the captain walked out of the room, the bravado melted out of him, and he made the remaining climb to the captain's chair with his head hung low, like a condemned man heading to the gallows.

Polidem settled into the uncomfortable command chair, sculpted to support and cushion the contours of a figure a bit shorter and much stockier than his own youthful physique. The headrest was a tough, rippled, tear-proof fabric stretched over a firm, springy cushion, designed to accommodate the spine-covered heads of the captain and his Faiacian-majority crew. It did nothing for Polidem's smooth Ilian scalp, devoid even of his soft black hair below the crown of his head.

The seat was framed by the three concentric metal rings of its gimbals. Where every other chair on the ship was cradled in sliding tracks mounted over stabilizing gyroscopic gimbals to counter turbulence, the captain's seat was actually built inside the frame of its large gimbals, giving it additional stability and an ostentatious air that suited the seat of authority, even if the seat itself was faded and patched.

Polidem did his best to make himself at home in the ill-fitting captain's chair as the crew watched him with dubious and baleful eyes. He flipped the switch on the side of his armrest that brought a terminal screen around from behind the chair on a mechanical arm, and he entered his command codes on the screen, registering himself as the officer in command.

Polidem then called up the captain's flight plan, turned on his comm, signaled the engineering department, and did his best to start play-acting a ship's captain.

"Hey, up there in the core! It's me… Polidem." He tried and failed not to say his name like an apology. "I'll be coordinating the maneuvers that the captain plotted out for us. So, uh… just bear with me a tick while I get oriented."

"Ooh!" Agachi, sailmaster and chief engineer, crooned over the radio from the ship's core section. "Cap'n's finally ready to let you test yer tail feathers, eh, Polidem?"

Polidem did his best to laugh off the bird's good-natured ribbing. "Heh. Heh. Yeah… Um, ok, so… here goes!"

"We're all ears up here, Commander!" said Agachi.

"Right…" said Polidem, and he studied the flight plan on his terminal, ran a quick mental checklist to make sure he didn't leave the proverbial parking brake on, and started reading instructions off the screen out loud.

<strike>-o--o--o-</strike>

It was not an immediate disaster. After a couple tense spanns of following the captain's plan step by step, the ship had reoriented a hundred and eighty degrees, ion rockets burning at a full-gravity deceleration burn to slow the ship at a safe, comfortable clip. He could have pushed the ship a little harder and arranged things so they didn't overshoot the wormhole, but the added g-force would mean additional strain on the injured crew and the damaged ship, and it wasn't like they were in a hurry. The expedition would probably be gone for the better part of a turn, and even if they came back early, they could catch up with the ship a lot faster than the ship could come to meet them.

Polidem double-checked the computer's course projections when they finished the first stage of maneuvers and announced, "Alright, everyone, looks like we're on course. Great! We should be good for about two beatspans before we need to flip again to make our final approach. So… stand by, I guess? Maybe take lunch, run to the bathroom? You know the drill. Polidem out."

Polidem thumbed off his microphone and sighed in relief. He pushed his terminal screen up, out of his line of sight, and regarded the crew of the command deck as more than voices in his earpiece for the first time in forever.

The crew stared at him blankly for a moment, then Qettal smiled, raised his hand to his temple in a salute, and started susserating the quills on his head, making them clack and saw on each other noisily. The other Faiacians on the deck joined in this unique kind of cheer, along with the occasional hoot and holler.

Polidem smiled, suddenly embarrassed. He put up a quieting hand and said, "Thanks, everyone. I'm just glad I didn't crash the ship."

The susserations died out a moment later, and the bridge was quiet for a tick. Then the crew turned back to their terminals and relaxed as one into the routine of the workday.

"What do you suppose it's like in there?" said Qettal. He'd recentered the ship's aft telescope on the wormhole and put the image on the big screen.

Polidem shook his head. "I shudder to think. I can't even wrap my head around what 'in there' even _is_."

"Probably some distant point of starless space, somewhere far away from the cluster," said Qettal. "If the wormhole closes while they're in there, they'll be stranded a billion light-years out."

"Or trapped inside," said Polidem. "I get the impression it's like an enclosed space. Maybe inside a hollow planet or something."

Qettal studied the screen for a minute. "Do you think it was made by people? No way, right? It must have been the work of some alien god."

Polidem scratched his ear thoughtfully, and it twitched reflexively against his finger. "Who knows, with void dwellers? I don't know if they have gods or scions. I don't even know if they have _people_. Lots of folk say there's nothing out there but faeries, demons, and monsters."

Qettal shuddered. "That's superstition, though, right? There's no such thing as monsters."

Polidem didn't know how to answer that. What was a monster, if not an alien from the void?

"Whatever's in there, I pray to Plutis that Dr. Haxle doesn't do something to piss it off," said Polidem.

"No kidding," said Qettal. "Why in Argivia would Rajak and Neska want to go after them? Let the treasure hunters chase their folly, I say."

"And what if they find some kind of voidspace miracle technology?" said Vankiproke, the Antwerbian manning the EPS monitoring terminal.

Qettal snorted. "If they find a miracle, let them keep it. After they use it to get us to port, of course. Plutis knows, though, all they're likely to find in that place is death and ruination."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of Voyager comes to grips with losing Petty Officer Vance, while also grappling with the revelation that the wormhole that took Ensign Kang has reappeared, but Captain Janeway kept it a secret.

CHAPTER 2

_ Petty Officer Owen Vance’s log, stardate 52126 mark 9. Today,  _ Voyager  _ is making its closest approach to the Argus Cluster, the extremely hazardous region of space where our long-range sensors have detected the appearance of a type-three wormhole. This incredibly rare phenomenon matches the description of the object that Ensign Kang disappeared through on Stardate 50570, and I believe it will lead to the same pocket dimension where Ensign Kang has been held prisoner for the past two years. It’s my understanding that the captain has decided to keep the existence of this wormhole a secret from the crew in spite of this likelihood, mainly due to the extreme risk we would be taking if we crossed into the Argus Cluster. _

_ I’d like to state for the record that I don’t blame the captain for this decision. Entering the Argus Cluster to rescue Ensign Kang is clearly a fool’s errand, and no member of  _ Voyager’s _ crew should be asked to make this sacrifice. _

_ Yesterday, I approached Crewman Coleman about switching duty shifts for today. He was assigned to patrol the cargo bays, which is a beat that most security officers don’t like, reason being it’s boring as hell. He was more than happy to take my beat in engineering instead. He had no knowledge of the actions I’m planning to take, and he provided no assistance. _

_ I also raided sickbay two nights ago when the Doctor was out and my duty shift afforded me the opportunity. I know this was a breach of the crew’s trust. If I fail in my objective today, I will accept full responsibility and face the consequences of my actions, but I could see no alternative. Without the subdermal implants providing me with periodic inoculations of hyronalin and arithrazine, I know the radiation of the Argus Cluster would kill me in a few short days. Even with the medications, I know my health will be compromised in a matter of weeks, but I’m hopeful that that will be enough time to carry out my mission. _

_ At around fourteen hundred hours,  _ Voyager _ is due to release our alien visitors back into their native star cluster. Their vessel, primitive though it is, is uniquely fitted to weather the extreme conditions of this sector of space. It therefore provides my only real shot at reaching the coordinates where the wormhole has appeared. _

_ I’m aware that the wormhole will most likely be long gone by the time I reach it. It’s likely that I’m throwing away my future on  _ Voyager, _ not to mention my life, chasing a mirage. However, I can’t ignore the staggering coincidence that brought this wormhole back into  _ Voyager’s _ sensor range. No other Federation ship has seen a wormhole like this before, and yet,  _ Voyager _ has seen it twice in as many years _ . _ That’s nothing short of miraculous, and as irrational as it might seem, I can’t help thinking that somehow, Lucy is behind it. Maybe, she’s found a way to escape her prison. Maybe, she’s reaching out to us for help. _

_ I know the odds against my finding her are astronomical. I also know that the odds of finding this wormhole again in my lifetime are effectively zero. I have to do this. It’s not even a question. _

_ It was an honor to serve on this ship. In all my years in Starfleet, I’ve never known a finer crew. Bon voyage,  _ Voyager.

<strike> -o--o--o- </strike>

As the log entry concluded, a heavy silence fell over  _ Voyager’s _ conference room. Chakotay studied the miserable, frustrated people around him. Tuvok was as somber as ever, nodding slightly to himself, fingers steepled in front of him. Harry and Tom didn’t seem to know whether to feel worried or betrayed, judging by the sour glances they cast around the table and the sporadic way they clutched their fists. Chakotay was right there with them.

Seven appeared unmoved.

As for the Doctor, his jaw was set, and the grim lines of his face bespoke anger and guilt in equal measure. Torres was studying the surface of the table intently, with the occasional sidelong glance towards the captain. And as for Kathryn, she sat back in her chair, her legs crossed, the fingertips of her right hand pressed to her temple and her jaw. She hadn’t met Chakotay’s eye since Petty Officer Vance’s abrupt departure, just minutes ago, using the cargo bay transporter to beam onto the departing Po Lafimas ship.

They’d known already, the three of them. And Seven must have known, too. There was a type-three wormhole within sensor range, and Kathryn would have just let them pass it by in ignorance.

The words Chakotay wanted to say to her wouldn’t have been appropriate in front of the crew. So he watched her intently, waiting for her to address the meeting.

Janeway finally met his gaze, and a flicker of remorse crossed her face so quickly it might have been Chakotay’s imagination. She addressed the Doctor, instead.

“How long can he be expected to survive?”

“It’s hard to say,” said the Doctor. “The radiation levels aren’t uniform in the cluster. It will depend on where that ship goes, how effective its shielding is, and how well he knows the equipment he pilfered from my sickbay.”

“Petty Officer Vance is an experienced field medic,” said Tuvok. “He has even served shifts in sickbay on occasions when the Doctor was taken offline.”

“Then assuming he knows what he’s doing and given a little luck, he might last a month,” said the Doctor. “But he’ll begin deteriorating within two weeks.”

“He’ll be dead before he comes within a hundred light-years of the wormhole,” said Seven.

“It won’t even stick around that long,” said Torres.

“And where exactly is this wormhole?” said Chakotay, working hard to keep any trace of accusation out of his tone.

“Seeing as half the people in this room already seem to know all about it, I’d like to know that, too,” Tom put in. His ire was much more apparent.

“I chose to keep knowledge of the wormhole on an as-needed basis,” said Captain Janeway, “because all indications were that we wouldn’t be able to reach it. Seven?”

Janeway gestured to the conference room wall screen, and Seven stood and crossed to the front of the room. With a few entered commands, a detailed map of the Argus Cluster appeared over the screen.

The whole region was crowded with stars, but two tightly-packed discs dominated the field, both of which resembled tiny spiral galaxies. At the center of each disc, the stars gave way to glowing interstellar gas; the remnants of stars torn apart by the gravitational sheer of black holes at the heart of each. The clouds of yellow-white gas spiraled inwards, compressing into distorted rings of red-orange light around specks of impenetrable shadow. A third black hole in the cluster had no disc of stars and only a faint cloud of dust around it. Instead, it led a long tail of glittering red and white dwarves in its wake like cometary debris in its eccentric orbit around the cluster. Individually, each of the singularities would have ranked among the largest gravitational bodies surveyed by the Federation in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants. Together in their complex trinary orbit, the objects represented a gravitational force unparalleled outside of the galactic core.

A blue dot near the lower-right corner of the screen marked  _ Voyager’s _ position on the boundary of the cluster. A red dot on the bottom-left side of the screen marked the position of the wormhole. As far as Chakotay could tell, it wasn’t very far inside of the boundary of the cluster.

“Why can’t we just circle around?” he said. “We’d be within spitting distance--”

“Don’t let the scale of the cluster fool you, Commander,” said Seven. “The object is fifteen light-years from the outer boundary.” She tapped a couple keys, and a series of false-color overlays started layering over the image. “This is the gravimetric astrography of the cluster,” she said as a chaotic blue-scale overlay covered the map. It reminded Chakotay of the surface of a pond during a heavy rain. Vast gravitational waves rippled out from each of the three black holes, colliding with each other and creating complex interference patterns that were thrown further into chaos by the countless smaller ripples of gravity from the dense field of stars.

“This is the tachyon field,” said Seven, and a tightly-woven mesh of yellow ribbons covered the starfield; a spiderweb anchored around the black holes with fibers that wove through the entire cluster.

“This is a representation of the gamma, theta, and Berthold radiation levels in the cluster,” said Seven. “These are the four hundred and sixty-seven ion storms we are currently tracking in the cluster. These are the rogue subspace soliton pulses traversing the cluster.”

By the time she was done, the stars were little more than background static in a riot of overlapping patterns and rainbow colors.

“ _ Voyager  _ will lose the capacity to form a cohesive warp field within minutes of entering this region,” said Seven.

“Then we build a sail ship,” said Tom. “If we put our backs into it, we can have one ready to launch by the time we reach the place where we need to cut through.”

“It’ll take at least a month to get there,” said B’Elanna. “And then there’s the weeks it would take to reach our destination in the cluster at the mercy of mercurial tachyon streams. The wormhole will vanish in three weeks, maximum.”

“You can’t know that,” said Harry.

“I’ve done the math,” said B’Elanna. “The physics checks out.”

“As do centuries of observation by the Borg Collective,” said Seven. “Like almost all wormholes, type-three’s are inherently unstable.”

“We’ve been over every possibility, Chakotay,” said B’Elanna. “There’s no way we’ll get there in time.”

“Yeah, well, what if Vance was right?” said Tom. “What if Ensign Kang found a way to escape? Her implants might let her survive the radiation long enough for us to find her.”

Captain Janeway shook her head. “There are too many ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ in that supposition. I can’t commit to a mission that will expose several members of my crew to extreme risk and delay our trip home by more than three months on a remote possibility with no evidence to support it.”

“Indeed,” said Tuvok. “Such a course would not be logical.”

“Surprise!” said Tom, “Commander Tuvok’s playing the logic card! Who would have guessed?”

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” said Chakotay.

“Sorry, sir,” said Tom, although he didn’t sound the least bit contrite.

“Why weren’t we informed?” Harry asked the captain. “Respectfully, sir, we know how to do our jobs. We might have seen something you missed.”

Janeway looked pained.

“That’s the captain’s prerogative, Ensign,” said Chakotay. “It’s not for you to second-guess.”

Harry looked to Chakotay in surprise. Then he seemed to remember himself and nodded acknowledgment. “Aye, sir.”

Tom just shook his head. “So, we’re abandoning a member of our crew, not once, but twice. And, we’re losing another one in the bargain.”

“How did he even know?” said B’Elanna.

The Doctor shrugged. “Maybe someone let it slip?”

An awkward beat passed as the others around the table looked at the Doctor.

When the Doctor noticed the looks, he rolled his eyes. “Not  _ me _ ! Honestly, what do you take me for?”

B’Elanna shrugged. “Well then, he must have tapped into the sensor feed from Astrometrics.”

Seven seemed to take umbrage at the suggestion. “Crewman Vance does not possess the expertise or the subtlety to compromise my security measures undetected. His previous attempts at tampering with the ship’s sensors proved as much.”

Janeway addressed Tuvok. “Search his quarters. Review his personal logs. I want to know if there’s been a security breach, and I want to know if he had any kind of a plan beyond stowing away on the Po Lafimas ship with a handful of radiation drugs and hoping for the best.”

“Aye, Captain,” said Tuvok.

A quiet descended over the conference room. It felt like there was more to discuss, but Chakotay just wanted the meeting to end so he could talk to the captain in private. The others traded questioning glances until finally, Harry spoke up.

“I know we can’t fly into the cluster, Captain,” he said, “But it doesn’t feel right to pass it by without doing  _ something _ . If… If somehow, Ensign Kang did escape through that wormhole, shouldn’t we let her know we were here?”

Captain Janeway considered the question.

“A beacon?” said Chakotay.

“It would have to cut through a hundred light-years of heavy interference,” said Torres. “That means broadcasting in a very low frequency. Even if she somehow got ahold of a subspace radio, it would have to be an advanced design to pick up our signal.”

“I’ve detected no signs of subspace communications within the cluster,” said Seven. “In fact, I’ve seen no evidence of subspace technology of any kind.”

“We could design a beacon to broadcast a tachyon beam,” said Harry. “If they have any kind of faster-than-light communications or sensors in there, it must be tachyon-based.”

B’Elanna nodded thoughtfully. “That could work. But the probe would burn out within a couple weeks. The power required to broadcast a tachyon beam a hundred light-years…”

“We can set it to fire intermittent pulses,” said Seven. “I could modify a standard planetary beacon to fire a coherent tachyon beam over a hundred and thirty light-years once every seventy-two hours indefinitely.”

Captain Janeway nodded. “Do it. Program it to send a message with standard Starfleet encryption protocols. We’ll let her know we were here and which way we’re headed next. We’ll include all the stellar cartography data we’ve collected on the region, and we’ll tip her off to a cache of supplies and equipment we’ll store inside of the beacon.”

Janeway drummed her fingers on the table for a moment, trying to think what she might have forgotten.

“What about Vance?” said Torres.

Janeway nodded. “We’ll let her know he’s gone into the Cluster, too. If she knows to look for him, they just might find each other. And, we’ll address our message to him, as well. He’ll likely need the lifeline if he can reach it.”

“The likelihood that either of them will ever get our message…” said Tuvok, and Janeway cut him off.

“I know. But Harry’s right. We should do this much, at least.”

“I’d like to add one more thing to the message,” said Chakotay, and the others turned to him.

“Letters. When we received the transmission from the Alpha Quadrant,” he said, “Kang got a few, too.”

“My design will not have the bandwidth for video messages,” said Seven.

“Transcripts, then,” said Chakotay. “And we can include the full messages in the cache.”

The others around the table nodded agreement.

“We’ll adjust course,” Janeway announced. “We’ll follow the boundary of the Argus Cluster another twenty light-years. If I recall our star charts, there’s an alien outpost orbiting an M-two red dwarf just a few light-years from there, correct?”

She looked to Seven, who nodded. “An outlying resupply station operated by species one-four-seven-eight. A warp-capable civilization not known to be hostile.”

The captain nodded in satisfaction. “If Ensign Kang or Mister Vance do manage to reach our beacon, they’ll be able to reconfigure it to send them a signal. From there on… we can only wish them the best. Maybe one day, one or both of them will find a way to contact us. We’ll be listening. That’s all. You’re dismissed.”

The others rose from their seats and headed for the exit, Harry and Tom seeming a little bit mollified that they were at least going to do  _ something _ , even if it wasn’t as much as they would have wanted.

Chakotay wasn’t so easily mollified. He needed something more--a justification, or at least an explanation for why Kathryn had kept this from him. While the others filtered out of the room, he kept his seat, and so did she. Their eyes met, and Chakotay was struck by the trepidation and remorse in her gaze. Suddenly, Chakotay wasn’t quite as angry anymore.

When the doors slid shut again and left them alone, Kathryn spoke first.

“I made a mistake,” she said.

Chakotay gave the thought a moment’s consideration before nodding in agreement. “Yes, you did. But… I think I understand why you made it.”

Kathryn raised a quizzical brow and eyed him skeptically. “Oh? Then enlighten me.”

“You didn’t want to burden us. You wanted to carry the guilt all on your own.”

She considered his words and shook her head. “Whether I’d said anything or not, it would have still been my decision and my responsibility.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Chakotay. “You made the decision, but we  _ all _ bear the responsibility. Had I known, I could have filed a formal protest. I could have argued with you until I was blue in the face. I could have run off on my own like Vance did. Yet, now that I do know, I won’t do any of those things. Do you know why?”

“Duty?”

“Because you’re  _ right _ , Kathryn. That wormhole may not even be related to Ensign Kang. We can’t risk the lives of the crew on such shaky grounds. But even if I thought you were wrong, I’ve pledged to defer to your judgment and accept my share of the responsibility.”

A pained expression crossed Kathryn’s face. “Chakotay, where Ensign Kang is concerned, you’ve already taken more than your fair share of responsibility.”

Chakotay sat back in his seat, surprised at her sentiment. “She’s not the only officer to suffer or die under my command,” he said. “I bear responsibility for each of them. It’s part of the job. You know that better than anyone.”

Kathryn nodded. “Lucy’s case was just a little bit different, though, wasn’t it?”

Chakotay considered. “It felt that way at the time, but I’m long past blaming myself. To take the blame for Lucy’s actions, I’d have to dismiss the courage it took her to make that sacrifice. I don’t want to do that. She saved you, Kathryn. If not for Lucy Kang, one of us would be trapped there in her place, and I never could have convinced you to let it be  _ me _ .”

Kathryn absorbed his words, and then she broke eye contact. “We owe her a lot, don’t we?”

“We owe the same to every man and woman under our command. Any one of them would jump on a plasma grenade for us. The least we can offer in return is to be honest with them. Not keep things secret that don’t  _ need  _ to be.”

Kathryn nodded. “Point taken, Chakotay. Still, I can’t help thinking, if I’d done a better job of keeping that secret, we wouldn’t be missing another man now.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen grapples with the harsh consequences of his decision to go chasing after Lucy.

CHAPTER 3

Owen studied the expanse of stone before him, hunting for his next handhold in the treacherous topography of the pockmarked boulder. The moment he spotted a hole in the rock he felt mostly confident he could grasp, he lunged for it, his feet scrabbling against the rock until they found purchase on small irregularities in the rough stone.

He didn’t pause to catch his breath but immediately turned to searching for his next handhold. He was acutely aware that even the slightest misstep would mean his death, but he couldn’t afford to let up. He was falling more and more behind by the second.

Above him--too far above him--his petite climbing partner scampered up the rock as if she were born to the cliffs. She was wrapped up in a plush beige parka over her Starfleet duty uniform, her black hair spilling loose over her lowered hood. She wasn’t wearing a helmet or any protective gear; not even her antigrav safety harness. She had insisted the safety equipment was more trouble than it was worth.

Owen had objected, of course.

“Oh ye of little faith,” she’d told him, and she attacked the climb without a moment’s hesitation. And so of course, he had gone up after her without taking the time to put on his own equipment, either. 

Reckless. Yes, she was good. Yes, she had superhuman strength and probably enhanced coordination and reaction time and more. But whatever else she might have had going for her, she wasn’t invincible. A loose rock could still send her plunging to her death.

Owen redoubled his efforts, forcing himself to focus exclusively on his own upward progress, reaching for handholds and pulling up, planting his feet and pushing up, no longer looking up beyond his reach and never once looking back down. For a while, he was consumed with his task, making methodical and steady progress, but never fast enough to close the gap.

At long last, his fingers found the ledge at the top of the cliff, and he pulled himself up to the brink. He managed to get his elbows over the ledge when the shale crusting the ridgeline gave way. As the rock broke apart under his weight, his stomach plunged even faster than he did, down toward the rocky terrain a hundred meters below.

Her hand closed over his left wrist, and his downward plunge was cut short almost as soon as it started. Owen looked up and found Lucy stretched halfway over the edge of the cliff, holding all ninety kilos of him in one small hand, her other hand pushing up against the rocks to keep his weight from dragging her over the edge with him. Her long black hair fell around her pale olive features, her nose and cheeks stung bright pink by the cold. Her dark eyes seemed to glitter with unfettered excitement even as her other features were pinched with effort. 

She slid a few centimeters closer to the edge, and Owen expected to be dropped, but her grip on his wrist remained steadfast.

She could hold him for a little longer, but she wouldn’t be able to pull him up. She might have had the strength, but not the traction. He had to weigh almost twice as much as her, and she was already halfway over the edge with nothing to hold onto. The thought of dying was hard for him to face, but it was infinitely preferable to the idea of bringing her with him.

“Lucy, let go,” said Owen.

Lucy actually smiled. “Not a chance, Owen Vance.”

Damn it, why does she have to be so reckless? It wasn’t her heroic impulse that bothered him so much as her blatant disregard for her own mortality. He understood that she just didn’t know any better; not since that alien machine had damaged her mind. He couldn’t expect her to recognize when her own death was staring her in the face, or when it was time to make the hard choice to save herself. Owen would have to do it for her. 

He twisted his wrist and wrenched his arm against her grasp, trying to slip free. He thought he felt her hold weakening, but instead of letting go of him, she released the cliff and took his hand in both of hers.

Their unsupported weight carried her over the edge straight away.

“No!” Owen cried out, no longer seeing a way out for either of them.

Lucy twisted her body around as she slid over the edge, bringing one leg down against the cliff face while keeping the other up on the ledge. Defying all of his expectations and possibly the laws of physics, Lucy managed to grip the ledge with her thighs and heave Owen upward.

The moment the ledge was in reach again, Owen grabbed the rock with his free hand and pulled for all he was worth, scrambling up onto the flat ground, then turning and grabbing Lucy by the hood of her parka and hauling her away from the ledge behind him. She let herself be dragged without taking offense, actually laughing at Owen’s evident terror.

When he was a good three meters from the edge, Owen stopped and let go of Lucy’s coat. The chilly wind blew harder without the cliff to shelter them, but for the moment, Owen welcomed the bite of the cool air. He was sweating through his undershirt into the liner of his all-weather uniform jacket. His breaths were coming quick, and his heart was pounding in his chest. 

He turned to Lucy, ready to chew her out for her recklessness, but one look at her guileless smile and the bottomless wells of her wide, dark eyes melted his resolve.

He laughed, in spite of himself, and she laughed with him. “I’m never going climbing with you again,” he wheezed between labored breaths.

“What? Why not?” said Lucy. “That was fun!” Her breathing was heavier than usual, but she was not at all short of breath.

“We nearly died!” he said.

“You nearly died,” said Lucy. “I saved your life. And whose fault was that, by the way?”

“You went up without gear! I was trying to keep up with you!”

“Well, that was your mistake, Owen. I can handle myself just fine, but you’ll get yourself killed trying to keep up with me.”

Owen shook his head. “You think you’re invincible.”

“No,” said Lucy, “I may not know fear, but I know my limits. You’re the one plowing headfirst into your own mortality.” 

Owen sighed in frustration. He couldn’t get through to her, no matter what he tried.

“Let’s not fight,” said Lucy. “We’re alive, that’s what matters. And just look at this view!” 

For the first time since starting up the cliff face, Owen took a moment to appreciate their surroundings. There wasn’t much to see on this tiny island in the sky; just a few scraggly trees and loose boulders strewn over natural limestone steps, bound by sheer cliffs on all sides. It was all that remained of an ancient mountain, worn down to a naked spindle of limestone by eons of natural erosion. 

To the east, other naked spindles of slate-gray limestone towered over the evergreen forest like the bones of titans, dotting the landscape all the way out to the ice-capped peaks of the continental divide. That was the Olympiad Mountain Range, the spine of Cestus III’s southwestern continent. The monumental limestone formations were characteristic of a national park called the Graveyard of the Gods. It had been his family’s default vacation destination all through Owen’s childhood.

Lucy and Owen appreciated the view in silent awe. After a moment, Lucy’s hand found Owen’s.

“Your fingers are like ice,” she said. Her fingers were warm, smooth and soft, in spite of having just scaled a hundred-meter cliff face barehanded. 

Owen smiled. He pressed his free hand against her silky cheek. “Can I warm them like this, then?” he said.

She pulled back and flashed him an annoyed look, then took Owen’s hand in both of hers and started rubbing his fingers between her palms. Owen watched her work for a moment, appreciating the serious cast of her face as she focused on imparting some of her warmth to him. Then he touched the back of his other hand to her neck. She shrugged away, and he flashed a sinister smile. Before she could protest, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a full-body hug. He pressed his face against the replicated fur lining of her collar and rubbed her back with his hands, trailing down to the hem of her parka, slipping under her shirt and pressing his cold fingers against the bare skin at the small of her back.

Lucy pulled back, trying to create some space between them, but Owen didn’t let up his grip in the least, so she squirmed against him. “Cut it out!” she squealed into his jacket.

“I’m trying to stave off frostbite,” he said.

She could have broken his grip with ease, he had no doubt, but instead she writhed and twisted in his grasp until her back was against him. Owen settled for tucking his hands into the pockets of her parka. After a moment, she slipped her hands into her pockets as well, massaging his fingers with her warm palms. They stood that way for a time, silently appreciating the view laid out before them.

“Let’s see the other side,” said Lucy, and just like that, they separated.

It was only about fifteen meters across to the other side, but Lucy decided to bring them around the long way. She made her way along the edge of the tower, and Owen followed at her heels like a guard dog, ready to leap into action if she happened to stumble. When his heart could handle no more of this, he took her by the hand and led her inland. Lucy just rolled her eyes and consented to be led the rest of the way.

From the west end of their lookout, there were only a few more stone towers to be seen, and they were smaller and crumbling. Not far away, the evergreen forest yielded to a wide, flat plain of tall grass that stretched as far as the eye could see. The grass shimmered sea-green in the afternoon sun and turned deep fuschia-pink wherever the wind rippled through the savanna, bending the leafy stalks to reveal their rosy stems.

“It reminds me of home,” said Lucy.

“You have grasslands like these on Alpha Centauri?” said Owen.

Lucy shook her head. “It looks just like the ocean.”

Owen contemplated pink waves rolling over a green sea for a while, imagining he could hear the crash of the surf on the wind. “Let’s visit Alpha Centauri next,” he said.

“Next?” said Lucy. She turned her back on the vista and studied Owen with serious eyes. “What do you mean next?”

“You know…” said Owen, “Next. Like, after…” but he wasn’t really sure what he meant. 

“After we leave this place? After we get back home? After you finally find me?”

Owen frowned. “You’re right here.” He reached for her hand, but she stepped back, out of his reach. He stepped towards her, and she stepped back again, toward the ledge. She was shaking her head, studying his face.

“Careful,” he said, but she stepped back again, coming perilously close to the edge. He stepped cautiously towards her, but she held up a restraining hand.

“Remember what I said?” said Lucy. “You can’t keep chasing after me. You’ll only catch your death.”

Owen was getting frightened. “Lucy, come away from there! What are you doing?”

Lucy stepped back again, into the open air, and Owen dove at her. Lucy threw her hands up and shoved him back. He stumbled into a scraggly bush as she skidded back another half a meter. He looked at her in consternation for a moment, wondering how she hadn’t just fallen off the cliff, and then he noticed she was standing on thin air.

“Lucy? Why aren’t you falling?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I was never in any real danger, Owen.” She turned in place and looked up into the wide, golden sky that framed her head to toe. 

“Computer, end program,” said Lucy, and she turned back towards Owen as the world around them vanished, replaced by the black walls and golden gridlines of the holodeck. Owen looked around in bewilderment. He hadn’t realized they’d been in a holodeck. He looked back to Lucy, and she just smiled a sad smile, waved, and vanished along with the rest of the illusion.

-o--o--o-

“Wake up, Littlemouth. You got work to do.”

Owen was instantly alert. He was lying curled up on the deck, sheltered between two of the steel slabs that served as beds for the rest of the crew, using his uniform jacket as a blanket and his shoulder bag as a pillow. He was forbidden from using any of the crew’s beds, but he preferred the floor, anyways. It wasn’t like the beds were more comfortable; they were just as unyielding as the deck grates. All they offered were a few stinking pillows and tattered blankets, which, naturally, he was also forbidden from using. At least on the floor between two beds, Owen stood a chance of not being noticed while he slept. It was the closest thing to a private space on this whole tin-can rocketship.

Privacy wasn’t a thing for the Po Lafimas, it turned out. Their ship was designed for maximal visibility. Every deck was a single, torus-shaped room, linked by a ladder that spanned the length of the ship in a semi-enclosed shaft. The only thing separating the decks were honeycomb-patterned steel grates, and Owen could stand with his feet flat on one deck and touch his fingers to the next deck up.

Owen recognized the particular gravelly tenor of the Po Lafimas who had awakened him as belonging to Po Torbin. Owen pretended to wake slowly under Torbin’s impatient gaze, though already his heart was hammering in his chest. He wasn’t surprised when Torbin lost patience, stooped down, and closed his fifteen-centimeter-long pinsir-tusks around Owen’s upper arm, lifting him bodily off of the deck. The Lafimas hefted him with so little effort that Owen had no doubt he could have snapped his arm if he’d wanted, but with just enough finesse to spare Owen a grievous injury. Then the brute tossed him to the side with a casual swing of his snout, and Owen’s training took over, guiding him into a roll that would have landed him lightly on his feet if he hadn’t thought better of it at the last moment.

Owen made a show of stumbling as he came out of the roll, landing on his hands and knees. He milked the moment for a few seconds before pushing himself slowly back to his feet. 

Torbin’s breathy laughter was a relief to hear. Owen had learned quickly that his only shot at being tolerated on this ship was to be as pitiful and unthreatening as possible. The Po Lafimas eyed him with a mix of suspicion and amusement, and they treated him like a marginally adorable pest, like a stray cat or a friendly raccoon. They seemed to be making up their minds whether he was worth keeping around as a pet, or if they should just snap his neck and toss him in the freezer to supplement their food stores.

They were cannibals, it turned out. Owen knew, now, that they weren’t joking when they wondered whether he’d make a better snack than a crewmate. He’d learned it the hard way when they’d offered him fried quillroots, only then to show him the skull from which they’d plucked the quills. That was days ago, and he still couldn’t get the greasy taste of the scalp appendages out of his mouth. He didn’t think he’d touch another scrap of meat while he was traveling on this ship, if ever. 

Po Torbin gave Owen a shove to start him walking. “Let’s go, Biclops. I need your tiny fingers.”

“Sure, Torbin. You know I’m always eager to help out around the ship!” Owen tried his best to sound cheerful, but the harder these one-eyed, bug-faced ape-men pushed him, the more the sarcasm crept into his words. Thankfully, the Po Lafimas didn’t tend to catch on to subtle social cues.

“That’s ‘cause you know what’s good for ya, glom stalk. Everyone earns their keep around here.”

Po Torbin ushered Owen into the central shaft, and Owen scampered up the ladder with his hefty colleague at his heels. They ascended through the exercise deck, where the circular bulkhead was slanted outward and rotating quickly around the circumference of the rocket, generating almost two gravities of centrifugal force. Owen glanced over his shoulder out of the shaft and spotted Po Haggins spinning past. She was pushing a large iron block with the wide bridge of her snout, her feet and knuckles planted firmly on the bulkhead. The bulbous eye on the crown of her head swiveled up as he went by, briefly making eye contact with Owen before disappearing around the horizon of the spinning deck. 

The strange thing about the Po Lafimas was they seemed to come from a high-gravity planet, and yet they cruised around space comfortably at about a quarter-gravity. Without artificial gravity, constant acceleration and spinning centrifuges were their only workable means for keeping a constant up-and-down orientation. Owen supposed they kept their acceleration low to preserve fuel, and they relied on the centrifugal exercise deck to maintain their strength.

Above the exercise deck was the maintenance deck, where the Po Lafimas generally dragged Owen to handle finicky tasks that involved tight spaces or small components. It was all work that the Po Lafimas could do for themselves, of course, but it was the sort of thing that they didn’t like doing, often because it meant putting things up to their mouths that might discharge unhealthy doses of electricity or might be contaminated with toxic chemicals. Their blocky hands weren’t good for fine motor tasks; they had to use all the complicated appendages in and around their mouths for those. 

Owen stepped off the ladder on the maintenance deck and looked around, curious what work Po Torbin had for him. It was invariably something dangerous, gross, or complicated and completely outside of his skillset. He hoped Torbin hadn’t brought him here to take another stab at the water filtration system. Last time, it hadn’t gone well, and although he’d been studying the ship’s systems at every opportunity, he still wasn’t confident he’d be able to tackle the filters without getting doused in a slew of less-than-savory substances.

“Not here, flatface,” grumbled Po Torbin. “Keep climbin’.”

Owen’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. The next deck up was the cockpit, where Owen was generally forbidden from going.

“Did Captain approve?” said Owen.

“You think I’d take you up there if she didn’t? C’mon, back on the ladder already.”

Owen stepped back into the shaft and ascended the remaining length of the ladder to the cockpit, wary of the reception he’d meet when he got there.

The cockpit was the smallest deck on the ship. The hull curved inward as the fuselage of the rocket transitioned gracefully into the nose cone, which was essentially just a solid spike of duranium-diburnium alloy sitting on the forward bow of the ship. As navigational deflectors went, it was not exactly the most sophisticated instrument, but they’d yet to be destroyed by superluminal collisions with micrometeors, so apparently, it worked well enough.

Two-thirds of the cockpit deck was devoted to computer equipment, although the towering plastic-polymer monstrosities stuffed with silicon chips, electrical wires, and mechanical fans didn’t resemble any computers Owen had seen outside of a museum. The remaining wedge-shaped one-third section of the deck was what Owen thought of as the bridge of the Tusk of Neptis.

Arrayed around the outer perimeter of the “bridge” were six workstations that shared a low, curved bench. Six Po Lafimas sat on the bench, although the way their tree-trunk thick thighs splayed when they sat, it looked more like squatting. Each station had a round, concave screen flush with the inward-slanted bulkhead, and just below each fisheye display, a compact array of knobs, toggles, and joysticks. The Po Lafimas grasped and manipulated their controls with their snouts while staring up at the screen no more than thirty centimeters above their protruding eyeballs.

Squatting on a low, round seat behind the workstations was the Po Lafimas that everyone just called Captain, her one bulbous eye fixed on a larger display in the deckhead. To Owen she would have looked almost indistinguishable from any other Po Lafimas, if not for her especially garish outfit. It was actually painful to look at. All of them wore baggy, shapeless dresses, most of them made of a heavy fabric like denim or corduroy with lots of utilitarian straps, belts, and pockets that made the outfits especially lumpy. Captain’s baggy dress, though, was made of a silky, iridescent cloth the color of an old bruise or an over-ripe plum, and every square centimeter of it was decorated with elaborate patterns of closely-packed stripes, spirals, zig-zags, and floral patterns, sewn into the cloth with glittery, metallic gold thread. On her back just below her neckline was sewn a large patch the shape of a lemon standing on end. It was sky-blue with a darker blue streak running down the middle. Owen had no idea what it meant, but he had the impression that it carried some symbolic importance.

After a moment of standing awkwardly in the doorway to the cockpit, Captain raised her snout a few degrees and swiveled her eye back in its socket, looking behind her without having to turn her head. She regarded Owen briefly, and his heart froze.

“Don’t touch nothing but what Po Torbin tells you, little one,” she said.

Owen nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

With that, her eye swiveled back to the screen on the deckhead. Torbin stepped off the ladder behind Owen and clapped his massive hand on Owen’s shoulder, steering him forcefully to the portside computer banks.

“Kheei tripped on the nav accessory bundle and yanked loose a buncha’ cables again,” Torbin grumbled. “Nobody’s got time to sort out this mess right now, but I noticed you weren’t doin’ nothin’ but suckin’ up oxygen. Here’s a diagram for where all the cables plug in.”

Torbin slapped a spiral-bound book with laminated pages into Owen’s hands. Owen had seen more than one of these diagram manuals around the ship by now. They were invariably water- or heat-damaged with stains under the laminate that made portions illegible. Sometimes, pages were missing altogether. The diagrams were labeled with a combination of pictorial representations of components and unintelligible Po Lafimas script.

Owen was getting better at reading the pictorials, but he doubted he’d ever have a handle on the alien script. His UT made short work of the Po Lafimas’ guttural language, but without a tricorder or any kind of Federation computer interface, he had no way of translating their writing. He had very purposefully left behind all but a few cleverly hidden scraps of Starfleet technology, wary of letting such things fall into the wrong hands. He may have been just a lowly enlisted man, but he still had a duty to uphold the Prime Directive. 

“Get to it quick. We’d better have the nav system all the way online by the end of the turn, or Captain won’t be happy with you. And every time you make me come back over here and read something so your little illiterate monkey brain can handle it, I’m gonna help myself to another pinch of this nice, feathery face-fur of yours.” To make his point, Torbin yanked on Owen’s untrimmed beard hard enough to rip a few hairs right out of his face.

Owen made a pitiful whine, milking the pain for more than it was worth. “I’ll do my best. Just, please, go easy on the beard.”

Owen hadn’t shaved since coming aboard. He’d brought a simple, low-tech razor for the purpose, but the Po Lafimas’ latrine was an open alcove on the dining deck with no mirror or running water; only a few vacuum tubes and a dispenser of recycled sanitary wipes. Owen spent as little time there as possible, and his grooming suffered. So when his facial hair started growing in, the others quickly fixated on it, petting and scratching his face at their whim. Abundant facial hair was a bit of a novelty in the Argus Cluster, evidently.

Torbin sauntered off with a chuckle, and Owen turned to his work. A rat’s nest of cables ran between all the computers and in and out of the bulkhead, and Owen could see where a jumble of them had been tugged out of their sockets.

Hunching down to study the loose cables, he saw that many of them were unlabeled and indistinguishable, and many of them were only distinguishable by reading long strings of faded Po Lafimasi numerals and glyphs. He flipped through his manual, looking over the diagrams of computer schematics and wiring schemes, and he sighed. He couldn’t help but laugh, thinking of all the hours he’d spent in his quarters on Voyager, trying to get a basic grasp of advanced computer sciences in preparation for this mission. Decoherent quantum stacking, holo-processing, multitronic ciphering, and biomimetic positronics could offer absolutely nothing to help him with a computer like this.

There was nothing for it but to get to work. Owen sat down on the deck grate and started teasing apart the knot of cables, half an ear on the soft chatter of the flight crew at their posts.

“How much further ‘til we get there? I’m sick a’ staring at this sheking screen,” grumbled Po Grennel, situated on the far port side of the cockpit.

“About a hundred light-spanns less than the last time you asked that question,” Po Shimik snapped at him from the next station over.

“Hey, don’t get your mandibles twisted,” said Grennel. “I was just asking.”

“You’re not the only one who’s feeling pent up, Grennel,” said Po Kheei at the center-port station. 

“You’re just the only one who complains about it so much,” Shimik put in.

They were talking around the knobs and levers in their mouths, their eyes hardly straying from the screens over their heads. Owen tried not to stare as he listened in.

“I can taste the fresh beve stew now,” Grennel muttered. “I hope that Raccha restaurant isn’t too crowded.”

“You got us thrown outta that restaurant,” said Shimik. “I doubt they’ll let us back in.”

“They’d better. Once the Po Lafimas decides to go somewhere, there’s no keeping us out.”

“Except you tried to go back, remember? Station security came and you with stun sticks until you blacked out,” said Shimik.

“Well if I’d had a hand from some of you frightened chirik birds, it wouldn’ta come to that. This time, I expect each of you’ll lend your tusks.”

“Last thing we need is unwanted attention, Shimik!” said Po Smols at the far starboard station. “None of you will start any fights while we’re on Jetsam Station, or you’ll have Captain to answer to!”

Po Smols tilted his head up a degree without releasing his controls, casting an obsequious glance behind him at Captain. She met her first lieutenant’s eye and dipped her snout in what Owen judged was a nod of approval.

“One more turn,” muttered Shimik.

“Assuming this little Fuzzhead quits his slacking long enough to plug in a few cables sometime this turn!” 

Po Torbin’s accusing statement was so loud and abrasive it made Owen jump. For a moment, he feared the big mugato-looking oaf would come and thunk him on the head or yank on his beard again. He turned his wandering attention frantically back to his work, resolved to stop being so obvious about his eavesdropping.

They were going to be on a space station in one more day. It was the best news Owen had heard in over a week. He didn’t know if the Po Lafimas planned to kick him off at the station or keep him trapped in the ship. But whether they made it easy or hard for him, Owen was getting away from these damned flesh-eating cannibals.

He sorted through the loose cables on the floor in front of him, still unsure just how he ought to start this task. He picked one up at random and squinted at the boxy little symbols traced down the cord near the plug.

He couldn’t quite make them out.

Owen pressed his fingers to his eyes for a moment and tried again, tilting the print this way and that, holding the cable a few centimeters further from his face, until the symbols resolved themselves in his sight.

He needed to swap his meds again. Owen tapped at his sternum just below his collar bone on the left side, where his medical implant still made his skin itch. He felt the little device vibrate, acknowledging the adjustment, switching from administering a constant, slow drip of arithrazine back to intermittent doses of hyronalin. Hyronalin wasn’t as effective at countering the damage of the radiation he was constantly absorbing inside of the Cluster, but it was less toxic in its own right. He’d need to switch again when the radiation damage started accumulating in his body. Then, when the arithrazine began building up to toxic levels again, he’d have to switch back. So it would go, until his body could no longer tolerate swinging back and forth between one form of slow poison and another, unless his mission bore fruit much sooner than he had any sane reason to believe it would.

Owen put his impending doom aside and fell into a bit of a rocky flow-state, tracing cables back and forth, consulting diagrams and comparing the schematics to the switchboards that plated the computer towers, suffering occasional interruptions from Torbin’s intermittent attempts to ‘motivate’ him.

“Do you figure the Po will favor us this time?” asked Po Kheei.

Owen couldn’t be sure without lifting his gaze from his work, but for a moment he felt all the eyes in the cockpit on his back. He was on the brink of plugging his first sockets, half-way confident that he’d cracked the arrangement of cables to link the different systems in the subluminal navigation grid. But, he couldn’t help getting distracted at the sudden shift in the mood of the cockpit. Po Kheei’s question had carried a hint of uncertainty, maybe even fear. Owen had never heard the Po Lafimas express anything close to humility before.

“News from out there is pretty rare,” Po Shimik muttered in a low voice. 

Owen kept playing with the cables in his hands, making every effort to hide the fact that he could hear every word they were saying.

“Live aliens from out there is even rarer,” Shimik went on. “I think the Po will be damned proud of us, even in spite of... ” he left the rest of his statement unsaid.

“But what could he possibly want with one?” Po Grennel whispered into his controls. No one answered.

Owen committed his first plug to the socket and waited a beat. When nothing exploded in his face, he started plugging in the other cables one after another. It had been the work of hours, learning the function of each computer and the purpose of every socket, but now he was ninety-nine percent sure he had it right. If only every challenge he was facing could have such a tidy solution.

When the last plug found its socket, Owen found he had a leftover cable. It took him another five minutes to be sure that he hadn’t missed a connection; it really was a spare. He thought for a moment, then plugged one end of the cable into a computer and dropped the other through the deck grating. Then he stood up and dusted off his hands. “Job’s done,” he announced. 

Torbin took a moment to disentangle his face from his workstation and rose to his feet with a grunt. He turned his baleful eye on Owen, sizing him up for a moment before strolling over.

“Best be sure, snackpack,” he grumbled.

Owen winced for Torbin’s benefit, but the implied threat of cannibalism didn’t have the same sting after what he’d just overheard. No one would be eating him, at least until after they showed him off to their overlord. Owen wondered what that guy was like.

Torbin approached the computer bank and hunched down, studying Owen’s handiwork. Owen held his breath.

After a moment, Torbin pushed himself back to his feet and slapped a button on the machine. Owen stood back and smiled as the equipment whirred to life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neska and Rajak lead a party onto the space station and meet its spectral host.

CHAPTER 4

“What is this? What am I looking at?”

Neska gazed out the forward viewport in bewilderment, taking in a field of lights like stars but all exactly the same color and character. They were arranged in crisscrossing spiral arcs that receded into infinity in an orderly procession that defied nature, but on a scale that defied the scope of mortal designs. And between the lights, pyramidal structures like ivory axe heads dotted the void.

Rajak shook his head in mute consternation. His eyes were fixed to the viewport as well, his expression mirroring Neska’s complicated mix of awe, fear, and confusion.

It wasn’t outer space. There were no stars, and the lights that looked like stars were too small and close to be any kind of astronomical bodies. They could only be wormholes, just like the one the  _ Reia Two  _ had just come through.

Neska turned to her instruments to try and find her bearings. The first thing she noticed was that the  _ Reia Two’s _ ship-to-ship traffic control system had registered hundreds of other transponder signals, some of them belonging to a Faiacian auxiliary craft named  _ Reia Two _ , and some belonging to an Alixindrian skiff named  _ Idri _ . The number of signals fluctuated wildly as the system tried to make sense of identical transponder signatures originating from seemingly every direction at once. She decided the system must have gotten fried coming through the wormhole.

Then the radio control board lit up with between six and sixty calls, all from the  _ Idri. _

“Haxle’s calling,” she said. She glanced at Rajak and he nodded confirmation, so she picked the transmission with lowest latency to answer. The cockpit of the  _ Idri _ appeared on the small comm screen between the pilot and co-pilot seats, showing Dr. Haxle and his copilot strapped in side-by-side.

“So,” said Haxle, “what do you make of it?”

“I’m wondering where they all lead,” said Rajak, still gazing out the viewport at the wormholes in wonder.

Haxle flashed a knowing sneer. “Why don’t you head over to one and find out?”

“Why, did you learn something about them?” said Rajak.

“They’re convoluted reflections,” said Haxle. “We could see our own drive plume coming out of all of them at once when we first arrived.”

That clarified a lot of things, but it raised more questions, too. “These transponder signals, though,” said Neska, “They shouldn’t register. The receiver’s programmed to filter out the reverse-polarity waveforms of transponder reflections.”

“That’s why I said  _ convoluted, _ Neska,” said Dr. Haxle. “They’re not just reflections, they’re reflections of reflections. We’re effectively surrounded by mirrors on all sides.”

Neska’s brow furrowed as she puzzled out Haxle’s explanation. It still didn’t add up. “There’s little degradation, no distortion, and no feedback along any bandwidth, and radar comes back crystal clear.” 

Haxle just rolled his eyes.

Neska turned up the gain on her radar beam to see if she could spot some reflective artifact from the boundary, and the radar system whited out, as if someone were jamming it. She dialed down the gain until the signal returned again.

“While you’re puzzling over the reflective properties of the enclosure, our hosts are waiting,” said Dr. Haxle. “I’m going to answer them now. Would you like to keep this line open while I do?”

Neska’s eyes jumped back to the communication board and spotted a single comm request from a “Delurididug Deep Space Trade Hub” among the dozens of open comm lines between the  _ Reia Two  _ and the  _ Idri. _ She didn’t know how long it had been there, buried under the echoes of their own signal traffic.

“We’ll answer as well,” she said, “and tie the call into a three-way circuit.”

Haxle sighed. “Fine.”

Haxle’s copilot, a yellow-scaled Hoborian, started entering commands in his comm board, and Neska did the same. After a moment, the comm screen split between the  _ Idri’s  _ cockpit and the familiar segmented pyramid logo that the Delurididug station had presented the last time  _ Hypereia _ had made contact with them.

“Welcome, customers!” A bright and friendly voice boomed from the comm speakers, prompting Neska to adjust the volume. “You’ve reached the Delurididug Deep Space Travel Network and Trade Hub! Due to circumstances beyond our control, the Travel Network is currently unavailable. However, the Trade Hub is open for business! We are currently transmitting your instructions for docking.”

The comm panel blinked, notifying Neska of receipt of docking instructions. The format and language of the instructions were perfectly in line with the protocol at any Faiacian Free Commerce Association trade station, which would have been shocking to receive from a totally alien facility, had the voice not also been speaking flawless Faiacian. This Delurididug computer continued to impress her with its ability to duplicate their customs and protocols, but she had to ask herself why it was going to the trouble. It felt weirdly like a show of force.

Neska cleared her throat. “We’ve received docking instructions,” she told Rajak, and she sent the flight plan to his guidance terminal. He glanced at the file, did a double-take, and cast a nonplussed look at Neska. She acknowledged his discomfiture with a nod.

“As our traffic volume is so low at the moment, you won’t have to wait long to dock. We do ask that you wait your turn and follow your instructions to the letter, however. Visitors will be cleared to dock in the same order that they arrived through the gateways. All forms of faster-than-light travel and remote matter transference are prohibited inside of Hub Space. Any unwarranted act of violence or aggression against the Hub, the Network, the proprietors of the Hub, or other visitors to the Hub or Network is also prohibited. All contracts joined in good faith within the confines of Hub Space are binding. The Hub and its licensed proprietors reserve the right…” The automated voice droned on and on about legal restrictions and contractual obligations, and Neska tried to follow along, but it was all slipping in one ear and out the other. Try as she might, she was just too overwhelmed by everything to focus.  
“For more on the rules, regulations, and policies governing the Trade Hub and its surrounding space, please refer to the terms of service that are being transmitted now.”

Neska’s computer notified her of the receipt of a text document from the station.

“They already sent us a copy of this on the  _ Hypereia, _ didn’t they?” she said. “Did anyone even bother reading it?”

Rajak shrugged. “Cap and I skimmed it. It’s long as an encyclopedia, and it’s mostly boilerplate legalese.”

Neska rolled her eyes. “Great. So we’ve got no idea what we’re agreeing to by going onto the station.”

“Well, we knew it was a risk when we decided to come through the wormhole,” said Rajak.

“Thank you for your patience,” the voice of the computer sounded suddenly farther away, and Neska realized it was because it was only transmitting to the  _ Idri. _ She was hearing it indirectly through the three-way transmission. “Your vessel has been cleared to dock. We are sending you an updated flight plan to guide you to your berth. Any deviation…”

“Wait for us, Doc,” said Rajak as the computer kept on talking. “We’ll be coming in right behind you.”

“Don’t dally,” said Dr. Haxle. Then he ended the transmission. Out the forward viewport, a flare of white light split the darkness as the  _ Idri  _ fired its main engine. Neska looked around as tracers of light echoed the  _ Idri’s  _ flight, drawing identical arcs between hundreds of wormholes and hundreds of stations.

Within a couple spanns, the  _ Reia Two  _ got her chance to follow the  _ Idri _ into the station. Their flight plan brought them through a vast, circular bay door near the apex of the station that opened directly into an austere white hangar bay. The moment they passed through the bay door, a hiss ran through the hull of the ship, and all of Neska’s digital gauges went haywire. The external barometer read a standard atmosphere of pressure, the thermometer reported fifty degrees Apoligrade, and the chemical sampler abruptly switched from blue to yellow, showing external concentrations of oxygen and nitrogen in the livable range. It took Neska a moment to recognize, and then to accept, that the hiss of air flowing over the skin of the shuttle was, in fact, air. Neska pulled up the aft scope on her nav panel and saw clear through the open port, out into the vacuum of space. It made no sense.

She shared a wide-eyed look with Rajak as a sudden rabble of disbelief and fear rose up from the crew seats behind them.

“All right, keep your quills down, fellas!” she called back, and the rabble died to whispers.

Rajak quickly regained his cool, mostly, and followed the docking instructions to their berth, firing the retrograde and maneuvering thrusters to kill their momentum and get the ship squared over the docking point. The final instruction was to extend their landing gear.

Just as Neska started wondering if the station had a magnetic apparatus or a docking clamp that would secure the landing struts, the shuttle abruptly fell to the deck, their landing cushioned by some unseen force so the struts touched down gracefully on the deck.

Suddenly, the station seemed to be under thrust. Their shuttle remained planted to the deck, and the world through Neska’s viewport had a clear up and down. She could feel her own weight bearing her down against her seat. By the feel of it, she judged their acceleration at about one standard gravity. A part of her waited anxiously for the moment they collided with the mirrored shell surrounding this pocket of space, but that moment never came.

After sitting perfectly still for an interminable moment, Neska finally found the presence of mind to act. She saw that Rajak was already running through the post-flight checklist, but then he paused for a moment, seeming to forget what he was doing before going back and repeating several steps. She glanced back into the crew compartment and saw the others sitting almost motionless, still in a daze.

“Alright,” she said, and the word came out a whisper. She swallowed and cleared her throat, then tried again. “Ok guys, snap out of it. This is just another supply run on a foreign starbase. We’ve done a dozen before just like it. The only difference is they have some niftier toys. That’s it. So why don’t we go and check it out, eh?”

The others muttered tepid agreement. In the cockpit, Rajak seemed to draw a little focus from her words, moving quickly through the final steps of the post-flight checklist. Meanwhile, Neska saw to it the crew had all the appropriate gear and got them queued up behind her at the hatch. 

She sucked in a deep breath of air as the door cycled open, just in case. The instruments may have indicated a comfortable environment outside of the shuttle, but Neska half-expected a chilly depressurization gale. She couldn’t quite bring herself to trust the magical barrier holding the atmosphere in, and a part of her kept worrying that the station was somehow fooling their instruments and their senses.

As the door opened, though, there wasn’t even a slight hiss of pressure equalization. The first waft of outside air was fresh and clean, carrying away the slight, tangy scent of seven frightened Faiacians and an agitated Refflik in close quarters.

Neska stooped to lower the step ladder down to the flight deck, but she froze when she spotted a strange man waiting below. He looked up at her with an affable smile on his wide lips, and for a long moment, she struggled to process his appearance. At first glance, he seemed Faiacian. Many of his features were vaguely Faiacian, including the characteristic deep-gray complexion, but where Faiacian skin had undertones of blue or violet, his undertones were reddish-brown, as if he were a Faiacian-Alixindrian hybrid. The Alixindrian resemblance was further helped by the hint of fangs that revealed themselves when he smiled.

The crown of his head at first seemed to bear quills, but no; he had close-cropped, glossy black hair that was tightly braided and slicked back in a way that merely resembled quills. His eyes were large and almost circular like an Ilian’s, but yellow-orange like some Hobori, his irises distinguished from the “whites” of his eyes by just a shade more orange. The skin of his eye sockets was yellow-orange as well, as if to imitate the bulbous proportions of Hobori eyes.

His forehead sported three thumb-length horns near the hairline on each side of his face, very similar to the horns of an Ilian in his mid-thirties. His nose and lips were quite broad, giving him a face a bit like a Refflik shorn of fur.

As for his clothes, the cosmopolitan tan waistcoat, the high-collared, dark-gray silk shirt, and the neatly tailored, black trousers would have blended into any interstellar corporate office in the Halo of Jovis.

As Neska stared at the stranger, the flight deck outside the shuttle quietly transformed, parts of the deck plating disassembling themselves, floating into the air, rearranging, and locking together, rendering a staircase up to the threshold of  _ Reia Two’s _ airlock, complete with handrails. The stranger crossed his arms in front of his chest, spread his five-fingered, Alixindrian-looking hands wide, stepped back on his right foot, and stooped his head in a perfect imitation of a Faiacian greeting. The only thing missing was a quill-fan display.

Neska stood upright, her step ladder forgotten, and returned the gesture while fanning out the quills on her head.

“Welcome to the Delurididug Trade Hub,” said the stranger. “I’m your host and point of contact for all of your questions and concerns regarding the station. You can call me Hux.”

“I’m Commander Rajak,” said Rajak, who was suddenly standing over Neska’s shoulder. “This is our requisitions officer, Neska. We’re merchants from the Faiacian Free Commerce Association vessel,  _ Hypereia. _ But then, I s’pose you knew that already.”

The alien acknowledged the remark with a humble nod.

“Well then, you’ve got us at a disadvantage,” said Rajak. “We’ve got a lot of questions about this place if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Why, of course!” said Hux. “I’ll happily answer any questions that are within my power to address. Why don’t we adjourn to a reception area where we can address your curiosity in comfort?” Saying this, the alien Hux stepped back and gestured to the flight deck, inviting his guests to come aboard.

Neska took a cautious step onto the staircase that had emerged from the deck as if by magic, found it offered firm footing, and strode down the steps with forced confidence, meeting Hux’s wide, toothy grin with her own best debutante’s smile, perfected through six years of charm school education. Not that anyone would have taken her for a charm school graduate these days; not with her scruffy, unfiled quills, her lack of cosmetics and jewelry, her purely utilitarian clothing, and her heavy brown work boots. Charm school was a lifetime ago.

She looked around as she stepped onto the level flight deck, taking in the cavernous space, the lights floating in mid-air and shining up from the deck at odd intervals, the empty berths, the sleek, aggressive profile of Dr. Haxle’s skiff on the far end of the bay, and the single open door, a circular portal, on the wall opposite the vast, round window into open space. She tried not to look at that window directly. A part of her still expected its magical barrier to fail at any moment, blasting them all unceremoniously into the void.

Behind her, Rajak descended the steps, followed by Greg and the Refflik named Hrrglrich, then Ogden and Revik and Tova. Rajak had asked their eighth party member, Boltin, to stay with the ship.

Rajak looked across the bay at the  _ Idri _ and said, “Where are Dr. Haxle and his men?”

“Ah, so they  _ are _ with you!” said Hux. “Dr. Haxle was a bit… ambiguous on that point. Well, they’ve already passed through screening, and I’m currently conducting them to the library. Would you like to join them?”

Rajak looked angry and confused in equal measure. “What do you mean? You let them go off on their own?”

Hux shook his head. “They’re being guided by another instance of my image. I suppose this is as good a time as any to divulge my… true nature.”

With that, Hux held up his hand, and it faded out of existence before their eyes. Neska tilted her head and took a step forward, trying to interpret what she was seeing.

“Now, don’t be alarmed. You see, I’m not actually a flesh-and-blood lifeform, like yourselves,” said Hux. After his hand, his arm quickly faded into oblivion, followed shortly by the rest of his body, excepting only his gleaming yellow eyes and his wide, fang-toothed smile. Then these, too, winked out of existence, and an instant later, he reappeared, fully formed, standing behind the group. “But please, don’t hold that fact against me,” he said, and everyone jumped in sudden fright.

Neska’s six-chambered heart was suddenly racing, its triple beat loud in her ears as her primordial fight-or-flight instincts kicked into gear in the face of this unnatural occurrence. It took an effort to suppress her sense of panic.

“It’s a scion!” cried Greg, falling to his knees. “Please, nobody shoot it, you’ll only make it angry!”

Rajak turned on the deckhand, his own fright making him react with anger. “For Jovis’ sake, Greg, shut your sheking mouth!”

Greg’s evident terror only increased. “I’m only saying, you don’t know what it might do to us! It could melt us with a thought!” he whimpered. Rajak tensed his fist as if he would strike the man, and Greg covered his head and cowered.

“Please, gentlemen!” said Hux, “It’s quite alright. I understand how discomfiting it can be to encounter holographic technology for the first time.”

Rajak lowered his fist, the anger and fear on his face quickly melting into shame. He met Neska’s gaze, as if worried that she, of all people, would judge him for wanting to clobber the idiot who could have just offended a godling. Neska tilted her chin towards Hux, reminding him where his attention ought to be, and Rajak turned back to their spectral host.

“Hologram?” Rajak repeated. “I’ve seen holograms. You’re not…”

“Not like the holograms your people have developed, perhaps,” said Hux, “But a hologram, nonetheless. I’m not a ‘scion’ or a spirit, don’t worry.”

“Are you… communicating with us remotely, then? You’re on another deck? Or…”

Hux shook his head. “I have no physical form, not anywhere. Well, strictly speaking, I suppose you could say that the station’s computer is my physical form.”

“ _ You’re _ a computer program?” Rajak said in astonishment no longer laced with fear. “You’re jerking my quill.”

Hux shook his head. “It’s true, I’m artificial.”

Rajak was grinning. The notion that he was interacting with a machine intelligence and not a divine entity or a malevolent void monster had set him at ease, although the prospect put Neska in mind of the stories of merciless Argivian police drones. Still, it was far preferable to facing a capricious scion.

“Not to worry, though,” said Hux. “I’m empowered to handle all trade negotiations, inquiries, and legal claims, and I’m more than capable of handling any unexpected challenges that might arise.”

Rajak nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me, Hux, are there only holograms and computers on the Trade Hub? Or are there real people here, too?”

Neska thought she caught a flash of disapproval cross Hux’s face at the term “real people,” but it passed immediately, replaced by his default congenial smile. He started towards the door out of the docking bay before replying, and the group followed after. “There are a few organic lifeforms in residence if that’s what you mean,” said Hux. “They’re available if you’re interested in their services.”

They reached the doorway, and Hux stopped.

“What kind of services do they provide?” said Neska.

“Let’s continue our conversation after we pass through screening.” He pointed through the wide, round doorway and said, “This aperture is fitted with a screening device. I can assure you, it’s completely harmless. It provides the Trade Hub with a set of individualized biometrics in order to tailor our services for each individual. It’s also a security feature. The scanner will catalog your sidearms and any other self-defense implements on your person, as well as any hazardous materials you might be carrying. Now, before you start to worry, allow me to reassure you that the Trade Hub does not make a habit of confiscating instruments of self-defense. However, we do employ a variety of neutralizing countermeasures in the event of accidental discharges or attempts at violence between guests. Your safety is among our highest priorities. If there are any questions about that, I’d be happy to answer them.”

“What sort of biometrics do you collect?” said Neska.

“Well,” said Hux, “It’s a fast-pass molecular scan. It lets us identify you in our records and gives us enough information to categorize your species, so we know what’s safe for you to eat and drink, and things like that.”

“No DNA sampling?” said Neska.

Hux looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Well, no, but I feel I should direct your attention to section four, subsection thirteen of the Terms of Service, in which we reserve the right to collect, among other things, airborne genetic material emitted by guests within the confines of the Trade Hub. In truth, I already have genetic samples on each of you. It’s entirely proprietary information, of course. Trade Federation law forbids selling or profiting off of guests’ biometric data without express consent.”

Neska’s expression soured. She cast a glare at Rajak that clearly conveyed her thought-- _ I told you we should have read the sheking fine print! _

Rajak offered her half a shrug and addressed the hologram. “You don’t mind us carrying weapons? You’ll just catalog them?”

Hux nodded. “That’s right.”

Rajak drew his pistol from its holster and turned it over in his hands. “But you’ve got some magic doohickey in there that renders it useless anyways? What, will the bullets freeze in mid-air?”

“Our security measures are a trade secret. Suffice it to say, nothing gets shot on this station unless we allow it. I do hope you understand our need to maintain security.”

Rajak smiled. “Of course, Mr. Hux. And I’m to understand that Dr. Haxle and his people have already passed through this machine?”

“Indeed.”

Rajak thought for a moment, then he holstered his gun and said, “All right, then. I’ll go first.” He stepped over the threshold, turned to face the others, and waited. A moment later, a grid of red laser points washed over him and then vanished. 

Rajak waited for another moment. “What, that was it? It’s done?”

Hux nodded.

Rajak tilted his head thoughtfully, then, in a single fluid motion, he drew his gun on Hux and pulled the trigger.

He moved so quickly, Neska registered the click of his gun failing to fire before she was even properly startled by his quickdraw. A stunned silence fell over the party, but Hux’s smile only grew. A lopsided grin spread over Rajak’s face, and he nodded to Hux. “Just testing.”

Hux actually laughed, which made Rajak chuckle a little, which started a little chorus of nervous laughter among some of the men.

Glaring daggers at Rajak, Neska strode through the scanning door, paused as laserlight swept over her, then marched up to him and threw a punch at his arm. A hexagonal grid of blue light appeared between her fist and his shoulder at the last moment and blocked her hand. It felt like punching a pillow. She turned her ire briefly on Hux for interfering, then thought better of it and redirected her anger at Rajak.

“And you called  _ Kleg  _ an idiot!” she said, and she punctuated with a firm poke to the shoulder.

Rajak spread his hands wide. “I know what I’m doing, Neska.”

Neska lowered her voice to a whisper. “You think just because he’s a computer, he won’t swat you like a fly?”

Rajak nodded and replied in a similarly hushed voice. “That’s exactly what I think. He’s bound by programming, which means he’s bound by the Terms of Service. This just proves it.”

“You don’t  _ know _ the Terms of Service, you preening quillcock!” she whisper-shouted.

“Not inside and out, no, but I told you, I skimmed them. The station mostly doesn’t care what we do, so long as we don’t violate a contract, steal, or break anything. I can pull this trigger all day long, so long as it doesn’t go off.” Rajak held his pistol up and squeezed the trigger several times to demonstrate, making it click as if it weren’t even loaded.

Neska grabbed his arm with both hands and tried to wrestle the gun out of his grip. Rajak just stood passively, a playful smile on his lips, and let her try her best to break his grip.

Realizing she was risking triggering the station’s safeties again, she stopped and stepped back.

She turned to Hux instead and executed another Faiacian bow. “Please forgive us,” she said. “We’ve been woefully unprofessional.”

“No worries,” said Hux. “I don’t begrudge my guests their harmless jests or lovers’ quarrels.”

Neska’s eyes went wide. She glanced at Rajak and saw he was blushing deep blue, his quills rigid. He glanced her way for a moment and instantly broke eye contact.

Neska turned to Hux and opened her mouth to speak, but Hux held up a hand and spoke first. “My mistake.”

Neska nodded, ready to put the awkward moment behind her.

“Wow. Neska and Rajak are dating?” said Greg.

A beat of silence, and then Hrrglrich began a series of slow, deep guffaws. The others were smart enough to stifle their amusement in front of their senior officers.

“Get over here, Kleg,” said Neska. “You’re next.”

Greg shrugged and strolled through the doorway. The lasers washed over him, and he looked up and around, searching for the source of the lights. When it was done, he came and stood next to Neska. She was sorely tempted to reach up and yank one of his quills, but she knew the station wouldn’t let her.

“You don’t say a word for the rest of the mission,” she told him in a low voice.

He cast a confused glance at Neska, and she glared daggers at him, her quills flexed forward so even he would get that she was threatening him. He turned his confused gaze on Rajak, who nodded.

“You heard her. Keep your mouth shut.”

Greg nodded. “Aye aye, sir, if that’s what you want.”

Neska sighed and waved Hrrglrich forward. The hulking Refflik lumbered through the doorway and didn’t even pause while the lasers swept over him. One by one, the remaining members of their party followed.

Meanwhile, Neska spared a glance at her surroundings and noted they were standing in an antechamber to a long, wide, high-ceilinged corridor, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out to the “Hub Space” at wide intervals on one wall. She noticed the wormholes outside appeared stationary, not flying past at ever-increasing velocities, which meant they weren’t really accelerating upward as Neska had assumed. So, the station must have had real gravity. After everything she’d seen so far, Neska wasn’t even very surprised.

When the last of their party had passed through the screening device, Hux vanished from the flight deck and reappeared in the corridor, the unnatural sight making her quills stand on end.

“Excellent,” said Hux. “Now, there’s a reception room directly through this door.” He indicated the first of several doorways along the left wall of the corridor.

“Actually,” said Rajak, “First, I’d like to contact the other half of our party.”

Neska saw he was looking down at his mobile, which was flashing an “out of range” notice.

“Something’s blocking my signal,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” said Hux, “I’ll provide you a dedicated network compatible with your device. You know, if you’re interested in multi-purpose handheld technology, I could show you a device that does everything your ‘mobile’ does, but better, and more besides! It can perform a range of spectrographic, particle, and quantum-resonance scans, able to reveal just about anything you could want to know about your environment, and able to serve all of your mobile communication and computing needs as well.”

As he was talking, Rajak was linking his device into the Trade Hub’s dedicated mobile network. When the device was connected, Rajak said, “That’s great, Hux, but can we save the sales pitch until I’ve made contact with my party?”

Hux nodded. “Of course.”

Rajak signaled Dr. Haxle, and a moment later, Haxle accepted the commlink.

“What is it, Rajak?” said Dr. Haxle.

“You were supposed to wait for us, Doc.”

“Sorry, ‘Jak. I forgot,” said Dr. Haxle. He didn’t bother trying to sound sincere.

“Well, get your ass back here. We need to stick together.”

“That’s not happening. I’m in the middle of something. You’re welcome to join us in the library, though.”

Rajak took a deep breath and let it out in a frustrated sigh. He looked around at Neska and the others, thinking something through. “Fine, Doc. You just hang tight.” Saying this, he closed the comm line and clipped his mobile back to his utility belt.

“I need to go keep an eye on him,” Rajak told Neska.

Neska glanced at Hux and back at Rajak. “We need to get started coordinating repairs. We’ve got a limited window.”

“I know, Neska, but we can’t risk that idiot doing something stupid, like…” He cast a glance at Hux and thought better of his next words. “...spending all his money. We might need to pool our resources.”

Neska understood what he wasn’t saying, but after that stunt in the security screen, she was almost just as worried what Rajak might do. Still, she knew him well enough to know she wouldn’t be able to talk him out of this. The best she could do was keep his little pissing match with the archaeologist from derailing the mission.

“You go,” she said. “I’ll start negotiations with Hux.”

At that, Rajak balked. “We shouldn’t split up.”

Neska quirked an eyebrow. “Why not? You trust Hux to stick to the Terms of Service, don’t you?”

Rajak bit his lip and cast a sidelong glance at the hologram, standing by with the same polite smile he always had. “Ok. You, Greg, and Helgerich stay back. I’ll head down with the others. Before you finalize anything, you  _ call _ me, got it?”

Neska nodded. “Why don’t you take Kleg, too?”

Rajak gave her a frank look. Then, rather than answering, he turned to Greg and Hrrglrich. “You two watch after her and do exactly as she says, got it?”

Hrrglrich grunted acknowledgment.

“Sure thing, Mr. Rajak, we won’t let you--”

Rajak swiped the air with one finger, and Greg fell silent.

“You’re still not allowed to talk.”

Greg swallowed the words in his mouth and nodded.

Rajak turned to the hologram next. “Would you kindly point me to the library, Mr. Hux?”

At that, another hologram appeared next to Hux, identical in every respect. The second hologram started down the corridor. “Right this way.”

Rajak looked from one Hux to the other, shook his head, and fell in step behind the second one. Over his shoulder, he said to Neska, “If you go anywhere else or if anything happens, message me.”

Neska nodded. “See you in a bit.”

Rajak nodded back, then he, Ogden, Revik, and Tova followed the second Hux to the far end of the corridor. Neska turned back to the first Hux, and he gestured again toward the closest door. As they watched, the round doorway irised open onto an outdoor patio.

Neska stared through the doorway for a moment, trying to make the pieces fit together in her head. Fresh, spring-scented air wafted into the corridor through the doorway. Something like birdsong and insect calls filled the air. She stepped closer and poked her head through the door.

The patio was paved in polished stone, and there was a fire pit in the center, its smoldering embers contained within a shallow ring of green brick and mortar, covered over by a wrought-iron grate worked into an intricate vine-and-leaf pattern. There was a green brick chimney stationed over the pit that stretched up through the apex of the roof, which was thatched together from some kind of long, dry, powder-blue leaves over a support frame of white wooden logs. The railing around the expansive patio appeared to be untreated lumber as well; crooked logs sheathed in ivory bark, cobbled into a railing with nails and bolts.

It didn’t look primitive so much as meticulously rustic, like the sort of place the merchant barons of Iyoh Starstrand would hold a corporate wilderness retreat. The furniture on the patio was all homey and inviting, impeccably arranged, and completely untouched by the elements. Whatever they’d used to treat the thatch roof must have been pretty effective.

Beyond the rails, the patio overlooked a wide, tranquil lake. The plants surrounding the lake and floating on the surface in small patches here and there near the shoreline had leaves ranging from deep indigo to chalky blue, the same color as this world’s sky.

But what world was this? And how was there a sky here, inside of a space station?

“A teleporter?” said Neska, “Or some sort of virtual reality?” She took a cautious step through the doorway.

“Holographics,” said Hux. “We can do marvelous things with holographics, as you can see. This is only the tip of the iceberg.”

Neska nodded, feeling a little less flummoxed now that she had an explanation she could wrap her head around. It wasn’t much different than the simulator rooms on high-end luxury liners. A few hidden fans and lamps, a spritz of air freshener, a nature recording, and a big, wrap-around screen with an impressive depth-of-field effect. Compared to the Hux program, it was really pretty basic. 

Neska strolled out to the railing and looked over the water. The patio extended over the lake, so she could look down and spot multi-colored fish darting around just under the surface. She could smell the slime that gathered around the support pillars holding the patio out of the lake and feel the occasional sultry breeze in time with the rustling trees along the shore. It was very convincing.

“Now, can I interest you in a complimentary beverage and snack?” said Hux. “Or, shall we get straight down to business?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen and the crew of the Tusk of Neptis arrive at Jetsam Station, where a Po Lafimas convention is underway and the Captain has special plans for Owen...

CHAPTER 5

Jetsam Station was a dirty snowball in orbit of a gas giant. 

Or, that’s what Owen could make out on his little screen. He tapped experimentally at the cryptic icons, hoping to find a way to enhance the signal from the ship’s primary telescope. 

He sat against the bulkhead on the maintenance deck, tools and components from the secondary CO2 monitoring module laid out around him. It was just camouflage; something to give passing crewmates the impression he was busy doing a job for someone else. If anyone looked twice, they might notice that the cable linked with his diagnostic screen was dangling from the flight deck, but so far no one had paid him any mind. They were too busy making preparations for docking.

“Dial back the dorsal sail, Kheei, I don’t like the angle of…” snippets of conversation from the cockpit filtered down to Owen, mostly just Captain barking orders. The machinery around him drowned out most of it, but he heard enough to get a sense of what was going on. The ship was tacking through the current of the tachyon stream at an angle, trying to align their course with their destination before the current swept them too far downstream. 

They’d been sailing subluminal for the past couple hours, catching just enough current in their sharply angled sails to skate along at about a tenth of lightspeed. Captain seemed adamant that they avoid “slipping the wind,” which Owen guessed meant crashing out of the tachyon stream, no doubt to disastrous consequences.

The view on Owen’s screen was gradually clearing up on its own, and it dawned on him that the grainy image wasn’t the fault of his device’s connection. Even within a mere million kilometers, the ship’s optical telescopes couldn’t resolve an object the size of a space station with much clarity. As the rocket aligned its trajectory with the station and closed the distance, though, Owen was starting to make out more and more details.

It was actually  _ two  _ dirty snowballs squashed together, spinning lazily around each other in the narrow gap between the rings of the gas giant. Owen couldn’t make up his mind whether the station had been built into the ice, or whether the ice had built up on the station. Sharp, angular fragments of shattered structures glittered in the snow like bits of broken glass. It was difficult to spot which bits were still in use and which were the wreckage of the bygone age that had created this place.

“...angle is zero point zero, Captain! We’re clear to…” someone said in the cockpit. A moment later, Captain responded.

“Drop the sails, nice’n’easy,” said Captain.

A moment later, a tremble passed through the ship, followed by a sudden and terrifying jolt that launched Owen clear off the deck. He landed again, hard on his tailbone, and thanked the low simulated gravity for softening the blow.

The image on his screen was a complete blur for a moment, but it quickly refocused to display Jetsam Station in greater clarity than ever. Owen could see dozens of ships of all shapes and sizes on and around the station like insects swarming a porch light. Some of them clung to the surface of the snowball with tethers, some were tucked into little alcoves carved into the ice, and others, mostly the really long ones, trailed after or ahead of the station, parked in parallel orbits around the gas giant. These were hundreds of meters in length, proportioned like toothpicks, and swaddled in sails that must have opened wider than Olympic stadiums when they took to the wind. Thin arcs of light marked where tiny shuttles crossed back and forth between the ships and the station, lighting up the void with their flair-bright rocket exhaust plumes.

_ “...Lafimas ship, hold for…” _

It took Owen a beat to realize the unfamiliar voice he’d just heard had come over the comms. His hijacked uplink didn’t connect with those. If he wanted to hear what they were saying, he’d have to spy the old fashioned way. He scrambled to his feet and went to the ladder up to the cockpit. He climbed up just a few rungs, hoping no one would notice him clinging to the ladder if he kept below the deck grate, and he listened in.

“How long have we gotta wait?” said Captain.

There was a short pause before the station replied. “ _ Should be less than a spann. We’ve got an open berth reserved for you, we just need to clear a flight path.” _

“Excellent!” said Captain. “It’s been a long and tiresome trip, it has. We can’t wait to enjoy all Jetsam Station has to offer, aye lads?”

The flight crew gave a cheer, but after another pause, the operator on the other end cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Decks thirty-six through forty-one have been reserved exclusively for use by the Po Lafimas for the duration of your, uh… gathering. We’ve prepared world-class amenities that we hope will meet your approval, and station personnel will be on hand to see to your every need. We do ask, however, that your people refrain from venturing beyond the designated decks.”

Captain scoffed. “There’s a lot worth seeing above deck thirty-six. Surely, you wouldn’t deny the emissaries of the Po their due respect.”

The operator took a second to reply again. Owen wondered about the delay. They weren’t far enough from the station to account for it. “We have the utmost respect for the Po and his followers. It’s only logistical and safety concerns that have forced us to take these measures. Unfortunately, Jetsam Station lacks the staffing to adequately ensure a safe and enjoyable experience…”

“You’ve no need to fear for  _ our _ safety, let me assure you,” said Captain.

There was a decidedly longer pause, then the operator replied, “Although we regret the necessity of this limitation, your representatives have graciously agreed to respect it, and we feel assured knowing that the Po Lafimas are always true to their word.”

“Of course,” said Captain over the audible grumbling of the flight crew.

“Very good. We’ll send your docking instructions momentarily. Enjoy your stay on Jetsam Station!”

The call ended, and a chorus of complaints erupted.

“Well so much for fresh Raccha beve stew!”

“An insult, plain and simple!”

“I can’t believe they’d deny the Po Lafimas the same services they’d give to any urchin or mongrel in the cluster. We oughta--”

“Enough!” said Captain, and the grumbling stopped. “We’ve all got complaints, but if the Stewards have agreed to the terms, then we must abide by them.”

The flight crew sulked in silence for a moment.

“Rest assured, though, that we will not be the only ones on Jetsam Station feeling this insult. I’m certain the matter will be discussed, at length, and in the presence of His Watchfulness, no less. I’ve no doubt a suitable retribution will be exacted.”

“Yes, Captain!” shouted Po Smols, and the others echoed, “Yes, Captain.”

“Now, pipe me down to the rest of the ship,” said Captain, and then her voice echoed through the whole fuselage of the rocket. “All hands, brace for maneuvers.”

Owen took that as his cue to get off of the ladder. He returned to the maintenance deck and started packing away the loose machine parts and tools he’d laid out under the pretense of working, hurriedly cramming them into a latched drawer so they wouldn’t become deadly projectiles if the ship’s maneuvers turned choppy. It was only just dawning on Owen how terrifying the prospect of high-velocity maneuvers could be on a ship without inertial dampeners.

“Jovis’ testicles, pube-face!” bellowed Po Torbin. Owen glanced back and found the Lafimas on the ladder, staring at him with gaping mandibles. “Did your flappy little earsheathes block your hearing? We’re fixing to maneuver, and you’ve got bits and baubles out everywhere! You like the thought a’ them bolts flyin’ through your dainty little arteries? Artema’s great swollen ovipositor!”

For just a second, Owen let slip his temper and shouted back. “Do you not see me working the problem with that big stupid eye of yours? If you elephant beetles would tell me a damn thing, this wouldn’t even be an issue!”

Torbin’s eyeball just about popped out of his head. He lifted his foot off the ladder as if to step onto the deck, but he hesitated. “We’ll have a conversation about that tone--later. Look forward to it.” And he resumed climbing down the ladder to a lower deck.

Owen swallowed, returning moisture to his suddenly dry mouth, and resumed his frantic packing up. He stuffed the last stembolt sealer into the drawer and slammed it shut, careful to fasten the latch. Then he looked around, wondering where, exactly, he was meant to hunker down during maneuvers.

He was still wondering when the deck slipped out from under him. Owen fell flat on his face and went sliding feet-first towards the central shaft. He clutched at the grating to break his fall and clung for dear life until the rocket’s banking turn abruptly reversed direction, sending him tumbling towards the bulkhead instead. He crashed into the wall and his breath fled him, leaving him gasping and clutching for anything to hold on to.

The ship’s engines cut out, and Owen was lifted off the deck as the ship went into freefall. He clutched at the handles of a workbench to keep from floating away, but he lost his grip when the thrusters fired again, spinning the ship end over end and slamming Owen against the deckhead. The spin stopped and the ship’s retrograde thrusters kicked in, leaving him plastered to the deckhead with one eye pressed to a hole in the grate, giving him a bug’s eye view of the cockpit. Above him was a member of the bridge crew, secured to his station by a harness, gripping handholds in the deck with his hands and feet. He went on working his controls with his tusks, evidently unphased by the twists and turns of the rocket.

Then the retrograde rockets cut out and the main rocket fired again, mercifully gentle this time, allowing Owen to descend gradually back to the deck.

He lay flat on his back for a long moment, gripping the deck with fingers that had very little strength left in them, feeling the world spin around him.

“Maneuvers are done,” came Captain’s voice over the shipwide channel, sounding utterly routine. “All hands, prepare for debark.”

Owen took a few more deep, shuddering breaths and tried to sit up. His dizziness and nausea spiked, and he had to lay flat again.

A moment later, the ladder was rattling. Owen opened his eyes and saw Po Kheei clinging to the top rungs of the ladder, staring down at him. He started chuckling, softly at first, building to a full-throated laugh.

“Oi, get a look at this!” he called to the others.

Owen tried again to sit up, but the world was still spinning. Po Haggins’ ungainly snout appeared over the ladder, and then she started laughing too. Owen summoned his fortitude and forced himself to sit upright. The world still seemed to tilt to one side, but in spite of that he managed to stagger up to his feet.

“All right, you two idiots, out of the way,” Smols grumbled. “We got work to do. No time to play with your pet human.”

The ship’s second officer nudged Haggins out of his way and set foot on the ladder, forcing Kheei to jump off on the maintenance deck to get out of his way. Kheei descended gracefully to the deck at about half a gravity, impacting the steel grate with a resounding thud. He loomed over Owen, who was bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees, still trying to quell his nausea as Smols climbed past.

“Didn’t know what ‘brace for maneuvers’ means, eh?”

Owen looked around. “Where on this deck could I have braced myself?” he said.

Kheei just pointed, and Owen followed his fat finger to a pair of low stools near the portside perimeter. There were straps dangling from the bulkhead over the stools, and straps secured to the deck grate around the stools, as well.

Owen looked from the stools back to Kheei.

“And how the hell am I supposed to use  _ that! _ ”

Kheei chuckled again and patted Owen on the shoulder, almost hard enough to buckle his knees. “I’ll make sure and strap you in all snug before we launch next-- _ if  _ you’re still with us, that is.” He grabbed the rung of the ladder. “Now, come on. You’re fine.”

“Hold on,” said Owen. “I’m still a little dizzy. The ship feels like it’s spinning.”

There was a sudden bark of laughter from over Owen’s head. He looked up and saw Po Haggins still staring down at him.

“The ship  _ is  _ spinning, shekferbrains!” said Kheei. “You’re on a space station, now! Didn’t you know?”

Owen’s brow furrowed for a moment as he puzzled out how one was related to the other. Then he remembered the image of the station on his little monitor, a stately snowball spinning through space, and he had to swallow his gorge.

Spin gravity. Of course. These primitives lived in a big, icy whirligig. 

<strike> -o--o--o- </strike>

Jetsam Station was bizarre as space stations went, and not just for the spin gravity. From the moment Owen stepped through the umbilical docking port and onto the station, he couldn’t shake the bone-deep feeling that this place could not possibly be space-worthy. The predominant building material was some kind of primitive, crumbling, reddish-gray concrete, patched in places with greenish-gray plaster. In places where the concrete hadn’t been patched, the cracks were so deep that crisscrossing bars of rusty steel rebar showed through.

There was no station personnel on hand to greet them when they came aboard. No customs officials or security officers, either. Just another group of surly-looking Po Lafimas.

“Welcome,  _ Tusk of Neptis, _ ” said the most garishly-dressed member of the welcome committee, “You’re late.” The groups stood a respectful distance apart, and there seemed to be a wary undercurrent between them. 

Captain eyed her counterpart for a moment before responding. “Hello, Po Janis. We almost didn’t make it at all.”

Po Janis harrumphed. “We were taking bets whether you would show or not, when you missed the arrival window.”

“And where’d you put yer chits?” said Captain.

“I bet you wouldn’t dare show your face,” said Po Janis.

“That so?” said Captain. She paused for a moment. “Did you bet a lot?”

Po Janis tilted her head perfunctorily; a gesture Owen took as a “No.”

Captain clacked her pincers together in dismay. “Too bad.”

At that, both groups of Po Lafimas laughed, and the tension in the docking bay seemed to break. The two groups came together, and there was a babble of conversation, hearty hugging and light roughhousing as the two groups got reacquainted. Owen hung back until one of the Po Lafimas he didn’t know turned its attention on him.

“Well now, what’s this thing?” said the stranger.

Po Haggins came over and put a protective arm over Owen’s shoulder. “ _ This _ is our offering to the Po,” she said.

The other Lafimas drew closer, waving her snout up and down in Owen’s face and studying him with her big eye. “Is it a delicacy?”

“Could be,” said Haggins, “You won’t find another like it in the cluster!”

“Looks like a wooly Alixindrian, smells like a Racchan took a tumble with a Bolibol. Some kinda mongrel? What’s special about that?”

Haggins opened her maw to reply, but then one of the others caught her eye, and she stopped. “You’ll see.”

Several of the others were circling around Owen now, sniffing him. Someone poked him in the back between his ribs, and he spun around to see who it was.

“Well now, if he ain’t a mongrel, he must be a void dweller, aye?”

“And just where would the  _ Tusk of Neptis  _ find them a void dweller, huh?”

“Maybe it’s a gene mod. Does it do any tricks?” The one speaking pawed at Owen’s beard with his big, leathery hands, and Owen pulled away.

“Hey, tuskless,” said Po Torbin, “Speak.”

Owen turned around to look at Torbin, but mainly to get his face out of reach of the handsy Lafimas still pawing at his beard. “And say what?”

“You taught it to talk?” said another. “Why for?”

“We didn’t teach him, he already knew it,” said Torbin.

“How’s he make proper words without any proper mouth parts?”

“Beats us,” said Shimik.

“Same way a Hald’pii does,” said one of them.

“Definitely a gene mod. Bound to taste like shek, then.”

“Aye, you can mod for flavor or you can mod for function--never both.”

“What’s it wearing, though?”

Someone clacked their tusks together with impressive volume, and the chatter stopped. Po Janis spoke. “Let’s quit making the  _ Tusk of Neptis  _ later than they already are,” she said. “We’re here to escort Po Morcann and whoever she so orders to the convention chamber.”

“Smols, Kheei,  _ Petitofiser Owingvance _ ,” said Captain, whom Owen had just heard addressed as “Po Morcann” for the first time. She still didn’t quite have his name right, but now, he finally knew hers. “Come along,” she said. “The rest a’ you lot, go have fun. Just keep your mobiles handy.”

Po Janis and two of her lieutenants led Po Morcann and her lieutenants plus Owen out of the docking station through a massive airlock and into a busy corridor.

Owen kept waiting to adjust to the less-than-subtle coriolis effect that plagued his every step on the station. Every time he moved, the floor tried to pull his feet out from under him. Walking downspin, he felt his weight a bit more in his knees, and he always felt like he would tip over backwards if he stood up too straight. Walking upspin, there was a bit of bounce in every step, and he was constantly on the verge of tripping over his feet. 

It wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t walk normally, though, and no one around him seemed to notice it at all. Then again, every other person he’d met on the station so far was a Po Lafimas, walking like apes. If their balance faltered, they’d just catch themselves on their knuckles without missing a step. 

There were a lot of them, and almost no one else. He wasn’t particularly surprised. There was some sort of a Po Lafimas convention in town, and it was kept confined to five decks. Evidently, the Po Lafimas had a bit of an unsavory reputation.

Now, why would a culture of avowed cannibals get a bad rap? The real question was why they were tolerated  _ at all. _ It seemed like the people running Jetsam Station felt it was better to appease them than to turn them away, so they must have been a pretty formidable force in the Argus Cluster. That, or they just paid very well.

Traffic picked up a bit when they reached a section of the station where the corridor widened into a thoroughfare. Here, a long row of potted plants broke the traffic into two wide lanes, each lined with storefronts. Most of the stores were dark inside, their doorways and windows protected by heavy bars or metal curtains. A few were open, though, and Po Lafimas wandered in and out, evidently conducting their business in peace.

Owen caught an occasional glimpse of non-Lafimas aliens working in the stores. They were mostly humanoids of various races. At least three of them were the same race of lanky, yellow-orange, bristly-browed people.

Almost none of them ventured out of the relative safety of their shops, though. In fact, Owen spotted just one. She was loitering outside of a dive bar, or something very much like a dive bar, to judge by the smell and the noises coming through the open door. She was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze wandering the busy thoroughfare like she was keeping an eye out for something. She didn’t seem nervous or frightened to be surrounded by all these big, carnivorous aliens. In fact, she looked positively bored.

Her skin was yellow-gold, her eyes were a solid, crystal-clear blue, and her pupils were narrow slits that bulged slightly in the middle, where fractal branches radiated outward along jagged, splintering paths and vanished into the finer details of her encapsulating irises. She had hair exactly like burnished copper, long and metallic and dark red, worn loose down to the middle of her back. She was tall and attractive and a bit imposing. 

Her wandering gaze landed on Owen, and she looked him over without much curiosity. Yet, her gaze stayed on him as he passed, and when Owen looked back a moment later, she was still watching him.

He wondered what business she had in this place. Her clothes were about as nondescript as an unknown aliens’ attire could be. She could have been a merchant or a mercenary or a shopper with no qualms about socializing with cannibals. 

A heavy hand tugged roughly on Owen’s collar, and he realized he was starting to fall behind. He faced forward and picked up the pace.

The corridor they were walking terminated in a roughly-circular room shaped more or less like an amphitheater three decks high. It was a promenade, complete with open-air food kiosks, public seating, and planters packed with well-tended greenery, although at the moment the whole space was in a state of considerable disarray. The dominant feature of the promenade was a peculiar obelisk that spanned the room from the ceiling down to the deck at almost a forty-five-degree angle, tapering downward like the pectoral fin of some giant fish. It had a natural polish and a glassy smooth quality that stood in stark contrast to the rough concrete and dull steel of the rest of the station. It was unlike anything Owen had seen in the Argus Cluster to date. To Owen’s untrained eye, it resembled a tritanium-chromium alloy, evidently forged from one long slab of metal without so much as a hairline seam to give away the construction process.

If it was a work of art, it was a strange one. It seemed to extend beyond the confines of the promenade in both directions, and the angle at which it jutted through the deck seemed incidental, as if it were a part of the icy moonlet before the station was built, and the station engineers had chosen just to build around it as they found it instead of removing it. Owen recalled the fragmented ruins that he had seen from the  _ Tusk of Neptis’s  _ scopes, and he decided that was about right. This was a relic of whatever civilization had colonized or created this moon in the first place. And whoever they were, they were a hell of a lot more advanced than the current residents squatting in their ruins.

“What, he’s never seen argivium before?” one of his escorts grumbled.

“Prob’ly not,” muttered Po Kheei. “He’s so dumb it’s pathetic.”

“Keep up, skinny,” said Po Smols, and Owen picked up his pace to catch up with the group.

They picked their way carefully through the center of the promenade, littered with the contents of toppled vending machines, defaced kiosks, and wrecked furniture. On the higher decks, Po Lafimas crowded the balconies.

“Oi, Smols!” someone called down from the third deck up.

Po Smols looked up. “That you, Po Denn?” he shouted back.

“What’chu got there?” The other Lafimas, presumably Po Denn, called back. His voice was almost lost in the din of other shouted conversations.

Smols looked from Owen back to his friend. The group was moving ahead without him, now.

“Can’t talk!” Smols called back, and he picked up the pace to keep up.

A moment later, something massive came crashing to the deck near their path, and Owen leaped back by reflex. He stumbled under the coriolis effect of the station and landed on his backside. Po Denn had just jumped from the third balcony, absorbing the impact in his powerful, tree-trunk-thick arms and legs, his high-gravity anatomy bearing the half-gravity descent in stride.

“Was that necessary?” barked Po Smols, but Po Denn ignored him for a moment, looming over Owen and sniffing at his prone form.

Owen scrambled to his feet. “Hey, buddy, personal space!”

Po Denn’s eye bugged in surprise. “It talks!”

“Po Denn!” Po Janis barked, “ _ The Tusk of Neptis  _ is late reporting to the Po. So quit making them even later!”

Po Denn dipped his snout, appropriately chastened, although his eye was still fixed on Owen with burning curiosity. “Sorry, Captain.”

Owen turned his back on the inquisitive Lafimas and followed the group through doors on the far side of the promenade. They made their way down a couple more corridors, eventually reaching a marginally nicer part of the station, where thin carpeting covered the concrete deck and the walls were painted a uniform and unbroken beige. They passed a series of unmarked double-doors until they came to the end of the corridor. The last door stood open on a large room lit by electric-blue light.

Two of the biggest Lafimas Owen had seen so far stood on either side of the door. Owen sized them up with a quick glance. Their dresses hung off them like lead weights, plated with a honeycomb pattern of rubbery pads the size of biscuits. The armor would probably repel typical handheld ballistics, maybe endure the heat of a rudimentary laser; and the armor coupled with their sheer bulk would make it difficult to stun them with a phaser. They each also wore a harness over their heads that housed a pair of long, boxy batteries on the back of their necks, and sharp, forward-facing metallic spikes on either side of their natural tusks, each tipped with a polished metal edge. A thin cable ran from the harness into their mouths as well, probably linking a control apparatus to one of their nimble mouth bits.

Owen was fairly confident that they were electric weapons. Given the size of the batteries and what he knew of Lafimas energy technology, they could probably deliver a lethal charge from six or seven meters. Their armor was as likely a faraday device to protect them from their own weapons as a defensive measure.

Very intimidating, but very impractical. Would it kill them to use a simple sonic disruptor or a laser beam? Surely, they had the technology for  _ that  _ much.

The two burly guards dipped their trunks at the approaching captains. “Po Morcann,” said one, “Po Janis,” said the other.

“I’m here to pay my respects to the Po,” said Po Morcann.

One of the guards turned his tusks on Owen and gave him a good sniff. “You’d bring an alien into the presence of the Po?” he said.

“We are presenting him for the Po’s pleasure,” said Morcann.

“We’ll need to search him,” said the guard.

“Of course,” said Morcann.

“Remove your garments, whatever you are.”

Owen balked. “You mean strip? Right here?”

The two guards exchanged a surprised glance. “Seeing as apparently you can talk, you ought to understand what I said. Remove. Yer. Garments.”

Owen let out a shaky sigh, then stripped off his uniform jacket. He kicked off his boots, then pulled down his pants. He stood in front of the guard with his pants around his ankles, in just his undershirt and boxers, and spread his arms wide to be pat down.

The guard sighed, then picked up Owen in his massive hands and kicked his pants off with his foot. Then he set him back on the deck, grabbed his undershirt and yanked it forcefully over his head.

“Hell, is this really necessary?” Owen shouted.

The alien reached for his boxers, and Owen swatted his hand away, leaping back two meters in the low gravity. The guard studied him with a suspicious eye. Before he could advance on Owen again, Owen clenched his jaws and dropped his drawers. There was a wide vent on the wall behind him blasting cool air on Owen’s backside, and he tried to repress a shiver.

Owen stood facing the Po Lafimas defiantly. He spread his arms and turned in a slow circle. “You happy?”

The other guard was rummaging through his clothes, stuffing his fat fingers into Owen’s boots and patting down his uniform pants and jacket. When he was done, he nodded to the other guard, who nodded to Po Morcann.

“You can get dressed, little one,” said Morcann.

Owen stooped and pulled up his boxers, then retrieved the rest of his clothes from where the guard had left them and dressed with all possible haste.

As he was about to zip up his uniform, he saw one of the guards holding out an intimidating set of manacles to Po Morcann. “You oughta put these on it,” he said.

Morcann glanced at Owen dismissively. “What for? Look at it. It’s basically harmless. I had it running around on my ship the last eight-turn and it never did nothing but cower and flash its cute little teeth at everyone.”

The guard cast his gaze down at the deck for a moment, hesitating before saying, “Still…”

“Oh, very well.” She took the manacles and turned to Owen. “Come here,  _ Petitofiser Owingvance _ .”

Owen’s heart sank, looking at the heavy metal rings. He left his jacket unzipped and approached Morcann, his hands held out in front of him. “Aye aye, Captain,” he said, and he flashed his “cute” teeth at her for good measure, although he wouldn’t have called it smiling. She snapped the manacles over his wrists, then she extended her hand to the guard expectantly. He handed her a thin sliver of a chip, and she swiped it over Owen’s cuffs, causing a little blue indicator on the device to turn yellow. Owen felt the cuffs cinch over his wrists, becoming snug. Morcann handed the chip back to the guard, and who tucked it into a pouch on his hip.

“Now then, may we approach the Po?” said Po Morcann.

The guard nodded. “Please proceed, Captains.”

Po Morcann and Po Janis stepped through the doorway, side by side. Owen cast one more glance at his surroundings, taking note of every detail. Then Po Kheei’s heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder and shoved him forward.

“No skipping out now, fuzzy,” he said.

Po Kheei ushered Owen into the dimly lit room. It was the size of a ballroom. The floor was littered with broad, squat stools of the sort the Po Lafimas liked to use, clustered in a vague suggestion of aisles and rows, like fold-out chairs after a wedding.

There were sconces on the walls shining with dim orange light, but the glow was completely drowned out by the great, floating blue orb dominating the far end of the room. Its monochromatic shine cast the world in blue and black. It drifted in place almost two meters off the deck like a great big balloon, and it pulsed and shifted as if it were alive.

As the group approached, the orb swiveled in place, and a black gash, a vertical slit with wingtips crossing at its center, came into view, aimed directly at the captains leading their group.

The way it seemed to fix on them for a moment before darting over the rest of their group, it almost looked like an eye, taking them all in. Then it fell briefly on Owen, and he was seized with an animalistic terror, as if he'd just been spotted by some prehistoric predator. It only lasted an instant, but it left Owen without any doubts about what this thing was.

It was an eye.

The eye's gaze fell back on the captains. They came within about four meters of it before dropping onto all fours, crawling forward on their knees and elbows while cupping their hands over their eyeballs.

The rest of the group stopped short. When the captains came within a couple meters, they sat back on their haunches and looked up at the eye with immense reverence as its great pupil looked from one to the other.

"I've delivered Po Morcann for your scrutiny, oh Mighty Scion of Neptis!” Po Janis cried out.

“Morcann.” The voice of the eye rumbled through the deck, and several of the heavy metal stools in the room reverberated. “You’re late.”

“There weren’t no helping it, Your Lidlessness!” said Morcann. “We got captured while riding a siren wind up from the Artemic Starstrand. A void ship big enough to swallow our rocket in its hangar bay grabbed us up with a beam of light!”

Janis was staring at Morcann in bewilderment. She clearly wasn’t expecting this sort of justification.

The eye glared at Morcann for a long moment before turning its gaze on Owen. “But you escaped, I see. And you brought one of these void creatures to me?”

“I was able to trick the void dwellers into letting us go, Oh Watchful One! Their technology was astounding, but their wits were no match for the Children of Po. This one managed to sneak aboard our ship. A spy or a runaway, I can’t say for certain, but whatever it is, it’s weak and stupid, like the rest of its kind.”

“What say you, outsider? If you are the sort of thing my child describes, certainly you can understand my words. What brings you into my realm?”

Owen took a moment to moisten his mouth before speaking. “I am Petty Officer Owen Vance of the Federation starship  _ Voyager _ . I came aboard your children’s ship…” Owen hesitated. It wouldn’t be wise to tell these beings about Lucy Kang or the wormhole. From all he’d seen of them, they weren’t exactly the type to lend him a hand. “...seeking a new way of life, away from my own foolish people.”

The eye considered Owen for another moment, then returned its gaze to Po Morcann. When it spoke, it sounded just slightly annoyed. “Why have you brought this creature before me, Morcann?”

Morcann clapped a hand over her eyeball, too scared to look her god in the eye any longer. “I beg your understanding, Oh Great Devourer! I believed such an unusual specimen might offer some slight usefulness or edification, or perhaps a moment’s diversion for Your Azure Eminence.”

“Oh?” said the eye, doubt plain in its voice.

Morcann was trembling terribly now. “You hear how it speaks our language, in spite of its stubby little tongue, its inarticulate lips, its tiny throat.”

The eye actually sighed; an action that sent such a powerful vibration through the deck that the stools arrayed before it all rattled back a few centimeters. “That’s a common void dweller’s trick. Nothing you should concern yourselves with.”

Morcann collapsed back onto her knees and elbows, shaking like a leaf. “It…” her voice broke, but she rallied. “It’s no engineer or scientist, but its people have amazing technologies…”

“You think their powers hold a candle to mine?” the eye bellowed. “I am Po!”

Morcann let out a pitiful bugle. It took Owen a moment to realize she was actually sobbing. “No, Your All-Seeing...ness!” Too upset even to come up with proper appellations, Morcann pressed on, “Of course not! Your gaze reaches across the Cluster, from the Crypts of Proxima Plutisia to the Last Artefact of Obscura! But beyond the cluster…”

“Is nothing of consequence to  _ you! _ You are forbidden to stray from the Argus Cluster! You are forbidden from making contact with dwellers of the Void! You know this, Po Morcann! What do you say for yourself?”

Morcann crouched in place, motionless but for the violent trembling of her limbs, until the Po prompted again, “Well?”

“We never meant to leave the cluster! We were swept up in a siren wind! We didn’t contact the void dwellers, they abducted us and planted an agent on my ship! I only wanted to please the Po! All I have ever wanted, all I have lived for, my whole pitiful life... Please, forgive your foolish child, Oh Great and Merciful Scion of the Most High!”

The eye gazed down on the frightened captain for several long seconds before turning to Po Janis. Janis looked up at the eye in trepidation. From deep within the black gash of its pupil, there was a pulse of menacing yellow light, and Janis seemed to deflate a little. Then she squared her shoulders, reached into a pouch on her gown, and drew out a long dagger the shape of a tusk.

“Goodbye, Po Morcann,” said Janis, and another miserable bugle escaped the doomed captain’s snout just before Janis drove the dagger into her neck, releasing a great gout of blood, pitch-black under the monochromatic gaze of her god. Morcann thrashed, and a spout of blood arced away from her body under the half gravity of the station, twisting through the air against the direction of the station’s spin before spattering across the floor.

After the first spout of blood, the rest of Morcann’s vitality issued from her wound with frightening alacrity, spreading around her body in a black pool as her spasmodic thrashing grew subdued.

“Captain…” Owen almost didn’t recognize the strangled cry of Morcann’s second, Po Smols. He took a couple shaky steps forward before the strength left his legs and he fell to his knees. He threw his hands over his eye and crawled the rest of the way to his captain on his knees and elbows, and when he reached her, he still did not uncover his eye. He felt her prone form with the long tentacles that unfurled from under his lips, tracing the contours of her face and tasting her blood, his breathing ragged and desperate.

The eye watched this display before turning to Po Janis, questioning.

“Po Smols,” Janis announced, “Morcann’s second, these past six hundred turns or so.”

“Po Smols,” said the eye, and Smols froze, hesitating only for a heartbeat before settling back on his haunches and uncovering his eye, looking up at it in trepidation.

“To what cause do you attribute the death of your captain?” asked the eye.

“Captain…” A violent shiver passed through him, and he paused and swallowed, then he pushed on. “Captain tried to take a shortcut that landed us outside the cluster. Captain failed to protect us from… contamination?” He looked at the eye imploringly, and the eye nodded for him to continue. “Contamination from void dwellers. She thought because we hadn’t asked for contact, we couldn’t be blamed. Them was the ones that reached out to  _ us _ , and if we didn’t accept their help, we’d be trapped for ten thousand turns and we’d miss Inspection by Your Unfaltering Sight. She thought… if we catched one for the Inspection, you might…”

Black tears were running from Po Smols’ eye down either side of his snout. Owen didn’t know if he was injured, or if Lafimas tears were naturally opaque.

Then that leaking eye turned on Owen, and grief turned suddenly to hate.

“ _ Him!” _ Smols accused.

The eye followed his gaze and landed on Owen as well.

“ _ Him’s  _ the cause. Tricked us to take him into our fold, bring him into the presence of Your Justness!”

“Well discerned,” said the eye. “Void dwellers are a pollutant in my Mother’s sacred realm. Purge this toxin under the ever-watchful Eye of Po and assume the mantle of Captain of the  _ Tusk of Neptis _ , my child!”

Heavy hands fell on Owen’s shoulders, holding him in place. He looked up and found Po Kheei standing over him, looking down at him dispassionately. 

Po Smols pushed himself to his feet, steadied himself with a couple deep breaths, stooped, and yanked the dagger from the neck of Po Morcann. Then he turned on Owen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of the Hypereia's negotiations don't go as well as everyone hoped. Greg discovers hobnuts.

CHAPTER 6

Rajak couldn’t decide if he’d just been teleported or if the station had reformed itself around him. One moment, he’d been standing in a corridor on the hangar deck. The next, he was standing in the library. And all he’d been able to perceive of the transition was a whirl of movement, as if, for just a split second, he’d been flying down a shaft at interstellar velocities. If that had been the case, though, he’d have felt the motion in his gut. Hell, he’d have been smashed to paste!--unless the station had a magic trick to handle that as well.

Rajak grudgingly accepted that it probably did. The station seemed to have an endless bag of tricks.

He took a couple steps forward and missed the edge of the platform, stumbling slightly as he absorbed his surroundings. He’d expected… well, he really couldn’t have begun to form expectations for what a library might mean in a place like this, and yet, the station still managed to surprise him. 

It was a big room filled with bookshelves and books. The smell of paper, the peaceful atmosphere, the Alixindri-language signage marking categories in each aisle; everything about the place was exactly, perfectly what Rajak would have expected to find in any library on any civilized world in the Argus Cluster. The stark white surfaces of the station became almost homey with the addition of brick-red carpets laid out between the aisles, expansive rugs that tied together the open reading areas and the public computer terminals, and tasteful, welcoming artwork displayed on the walls.

Rajak took a closer look at a tapestry hanging on the nearby bulkhead and revised his opinion of the art. It was certainly tasteful, but nothing this valuable and delicate could really be “welcoming.” 

He didn’t know what the cloth was made of, but it was beautiful. The almost gossamer-thin fabric rippled in the gentle currents of the station’s air recycling system, and as it flowed, it seemed to transmute constantly between natural fiber and liquid silver.

“Tholian silk,” said Hux. “From across the galaxy. This tapestry was hand-woven by the daughter of the third matriarch of Kzz’tch’rka on Old Lost Thool, nineteen thousand years ago. To the right buyer, this bit of cloth would be worth a star system.”

Rajak turned away from the hanging with a shrug.

“But not to everyone, obviously,” said Hux.

Every other item on display in the library seemed just as valuable as the antique silk. The room was like a museum in disguise. Ancient wood carvings sat out on side tables, antique firearms were mounted to the end caps of the aisles, jewel-encrusted tribal masks sat on bookshelves. There were no glass cases, no cordons, and no warning labels, as if these were common household decorations.

Rajak turned to his men. “Nobody. Touches. Anything.” He made sure to establish eye contact with each of them in turn. “I mean it. Don’t come close to anything, don’t breathe on anything, and don’t even look at anything too long. Am I clear?”

The men nodded, and Rajak gave silent thanks to Jovis that he’d insisted on leaving Greg and Hrrglrich with Neska.

They set off cautiously into the library, Rajak keeping a close eye on his men while scanning the aisles for his quarry.

“Where is Dr. Haxle?” he asked Hux.

“Keep heading this direction and you can’t miss him,” said Hux.

Rajak came around the end of a long shelf and found himself on the banks of a small creek. The alabaster deck plate gave way to rough-hewn slabs of red granite and pink marble, into which was carved a deep, meandering channel that apparently traversed the whole library. Water flowed musically over the round, flat stones that lined the creek bed, and all along the banks were flower beds, topiary spires, and jungle-thick tangles of verdant green vines with vibrant white flowers. It was painstakingly crafted to seem almost wild.

It struck Rajak as absurd that these people would put a garden and a massive water feature in the middle of their library. All this moisture and dirt sharing space with priceless, ancient artifacts sounded like a recipe for disaster. No doubt they had yet another magic trick to handle all this, but all Rajak could think was  _ What is the point? Sheking rich people! _

He scanned the banks and spotted a flagstone bridge spanning the creek a little ways downstream. He made his way up to the top of the arching bridge and found Dr. Haxle on the other side, leaning over a computerized tabletop in one of the public computer areas. He looked right at home here, in his fancy Alixindrian duster and his expensive boots. In fact, this would have been a perfectly ordinary scene, if it weren’t for the fact that the tabletop computer looked like ordinary hardwood, while the computer displays appeared as if by magic in the surface of the wood or floated in the air above it.

Haxle loomed over the table, tapping at a hardwood touch-screen. Hux stood next to him, facing Rajak as he approached. Rajak looked around and found that his own Hux was no longer with him. Hux’s holographic antics made his quills itch.

As Rajak approached, Dr. Haxle popped one of his semi-precious Argivian data chips into the slot of a small white box sitting on the table. He drummed his fingers impatiently as the little machine worked.

“What are you doing, Doc?” said Rajak.

Dr. Haxle glanced back, momentarily startled. Then his mobile chimed. He picked it up off the table where he’d left it, glanced at it, and smiled.

“Good of you to join us, ‘Jak,” he said.

Rajak glanced around. “I don’t see your people.”

Haxle waved dismissively at the room around them. “They’re off exploring the library. I’ll be at this a while longer, if you’d like to join them.” He tapped a button on the terminal, and his data chip popped back out of the slot. Dr. Haxle pulled it out and dropped it in a basket on the table behind Hux’s back, carelessly brushing his sleeve through the hologram in the act. Neither of them seemed to notice or care. Haxle stooped to reach into the storage chest by his feet; the one he’d brought along from the  _ Hypereia,  _ filled with Haxle’s entire trove of Argivian data chips. 

“I ask again, Dr. Haxle. What are you doing?”

Haxle came up with a dust-caked, slightly warped chip. He brushed some of the dust off with his fingers and studied the decrepit little wafer for a moment. He showed it to Hux, who nodded, and Haxle’s smile grew. He slid it into the slot, and when the crooked edges stuck in the opening, he pushed harder, until, with a crack, it gave way.

“Because it looks an awful lot like you’re giving all your Argivian data chips to the station,” said Rajak.

“Clearly,” said Dr. Haxle. “This station can decode them, Rajak! I’m in the middle of uncovering the greatest trove of Argivian knowledge since the dawn of the Age of Sail.”

“And how much is that going to cost you?” said Rajak.

Dr. Haxle glanced at Hux, then turned around to face Rajak, his elation momentarily subdued. Then his mobile chimed, and his attention went to the device.

“Focus, Dr. Haxle!” Rajak shouted. “What’s the deal?”

Haxle waved him off and turned back to the terminal. “We haven’t reached a deal, yet,” he said. “Right now, I’m trading the data on the chips for station credit, and the station is delivering short summaries of the data to my mobile. I’ll be buying quite a bit of the data back, I assure you, but…” he glanced back at Rajak, who wasn’t even trying to keep his quills down. Dr. Haxle sighed. “I’ll wait until your lot have worked out the cost of repairs, first. Are you satisfied?”

“I’ll be satisfied if you don’t go running off by yourself again,” said Rajak.

Dr. Haxle shrugged. “You’re the babysitter.”

His tone did not fill Rajak with confidence. He wouldn’t be taking his eyes off the man for as long as they were on this side of the wormhole.

Haxle hit the eject button on the terminal, and the chip slot spat out the fragments of the last chip. Haxle collected the pieces and dropped them into Hux’s basket, then stooped to pick his next chip.

<strike> -o--o--o- </strike>

The hologram’s eyes trailed back and forth over the data tablet he’d conjured, a look of sober consideration on his face. The only sounds were the splash of choppy waves under the wooden deck, the waterfowl purring on the lake, the arthropods hissing in the trees, and Greg, his mouth full of hobnuts, just chomping to his heart’s content. 

They sat around one of the low wooden tables on the patio, a bowl of the crunchy nuts and three beverages set out for their consumption. Neska had hardly touched her water. Hrrglrich held his tall glass contemplatively between his padded fingertips, occasionally lowering his long, prehensile tongue into the liquid and pulling some of it up into his mouth. Greg’s glass sat empty, save for the dregs of the frothy green beverage he’d downed less than a spann after it magically materialized on the table.

It was surprising, how quickly the novelty of this place was wearing off. Neska had hardly blinked when the food appeared, even after she understood that it was real food and not more holograms. Now, she was drumming her fingers impatiently on her lap as Hux took his time going over her list of urgent repairs and vital supplies.

Greg finished chewing and reached back into the bowl for yet another fistful of hobnuts to mash against his gaping maw, and Neska’s patience finally ran out. She moistened her mouth with her tongue, reminded herself that Hux was not a scion or a void monster but merely an automated salesman, and spoke up.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hux, but I’m confused,” she said.

Hux looked up from his reading, quirking a questioning eyebrow.

“You’re basically a supercomputer, right?”

“In as much as you’re basically a sailship crew, yes,” said Hux.

Neska tried to make sense of his words.

“I exist  _ in  _ a computer and I am a part of it, but I am not, myself, the entire computer,” he clarified.

“Ok, sure,” said Neska. “But as a computer program, shouldn’t you just be able to download this list? In fact, didn’t you download it immediately when I transmitted it to you from my mobile? So why are we sitting here while you ‘read’ it again?”

Hux flashed a guilty smile. “Well, you’ve got me there. In fact, I’m taking the time to consider the logistics of different repair strategies and the various pricing models that each will entail, among other things.”

Neska gave him a dubious look. She’d dealt with enough salesmen to recognize when someone was trying to make her sweat. “Let’s start with the cheapest option that will get us to the next port,” she said.

Hux bit his lip. “We can start there, if you like… but bear in mind, the Trade Hub will manage repairs far more efficiently than any competitor from your part of the galaxy is likely to.”

“Sure,” said Neska. “But it’s somewhere to start.”

Hux sighed. “Well, the cheapest option I see is nothing at all. If you like, I can show you out now, and you can sort it out yourselves.”

Neska forced her quills not to bristle. She crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. “You think we can fix the damage on our own, then? Maybe you’re right. Maybe coming here was an unnecessary risk.”

Hux smiled. “That’s not what I said. You’ll never get your sails up without functional bearings, so you’ll have to take them from your starboard sail assembly. You’ll have to cannibalize the parts you need for your servos from other critical systems, as well. Maybe it won’t work out at all, or maybe you’ll manage to rig everything so the ship is technically space-worthy. Best case scenario, you’ll get your ship sailing at two or three times lightspeed and make port in a hundred turns or so. That’s if you’re one of the survivors.”

Hux’s words had the weight of lead, because Neska knew they were true. 

Hux’s reading device vanished from his hands and he gave Neska his undivided attention. “Your ‘Garden’ is in rough shape, isn’t it?”

Neska shrugged slightly, and Hux took it as a confirmation.

“You hardly mention it in your repair list, but your supply list includes a lot of nutritional supplements, air and waste-water purifiers, bottled oxygen… These are things your garden is meant to supply.”

“We can manage our garden ourselves,” said Neska. “The supplies are a fallback.”

Hux studied her face for a moment, then shrugged and sat back in his chair. “If you really believe that, great. The point I’m trying to make is that this isn’t a simple matter of picking the ‘cheapest’ available option. Every choice you make will have trade-offs. Do you reach port in ten turns, or fifty? Do you trust your compromised life support systems for the whole trip, or do you get them restored now? How much risk are you willing to take? How many losses are you willing to bear? These aren’t simple calculations to make, even for a ‘super’ computer.”

Neska took a deep breath. She cautioned herself not to give in to fear, but the fact was, everything the hologram had said was true.

“How much, to buy everything on that list marked essential?”

Hux considered. “With installation?”

Neska shook her head. “We just need the parts. We’ll make the repairs ourselves. Outside of the wormhole.”

“Well, seeing as we don’t have a mutually recognized currency, I’ll give you a price in Trade Hub credit. Let’s say… one million, thirteen thousand, four hundred and thirty-three.”

Neska stared at him blankly for a moment, and Hux seemed to reconsider.

“Oh, what the shek. Call it an even million. It’s a relative system, anyways. The value varies according to the transaction. What matters isn’t the number we put on it, it’s the relative values of the goods and services we exchange. Agreed?”

Neska shook her head in confusion. “You’re saying a million trade hub credits is an entirely arbitrary number?”

Hux nodded. “Everything you or I offer each other from this point forward will be weighed according to the assumption that every essential item on this list,” and he pulled his digital reader out of thin air again, “adds up to a million credits. Keeps things simple.”

“Alright,” said Neska, “In that case, I’ll send you the manifest of trade goods I’ve brought over from our ship.” She picked up her mobile and transmitted the manifest.

Hux’s device beeped, and he glanced down at it. He looked the list over once, then twice. Then he sighed. “Oh, dear.”

Neska fought to master her worry before it showed on her face. “Surely there’s more than enough there to cover the cost of a few metal orbs and some rudimentary electronics, right?”

Hux shook his head. “The parts you need are mundane. The problem is overhead.”

“Overhead,” Neska repeated.

Hux nodded somberly. “In order to stay in operation, the Trade Hub needs to maintain margins that cover the fixed costs of operating. We have to keep the lights on, you see?”

“You’re saying my trade goods won’t even cover the retail markup on goods you can produce effectively for free?”

Hux shook his head and looked down at the list again. “Fourteen bolts of auto-loomed poly-fiber blended fabric, produced from recycled plant matter. Thirty bricks of compressed tega leaf. Two thousand cubic fligtags of assorted liquors…” He shook his head in dismay.

“But Hux, these  _ aren’t _ your ordinary consumer goods,” said Neska.

“No?” said Hux.

Neska shook her head emphatically. “Not at all! These are cultural artifacts from a civilization that has had virtually no contact with the wider universe.” She looked to her crewmates for support, but they weren’t much help. Greg looked dumbfounded at her argument. Hrrglrich might have been smiling encouragingly, or he might have thought her argument was hilarious. It was very hard to read Refflik facial expressions.

“Like the lost tribes of Plutisgate. These items must surely be a novelty for races that have never been inside of the Argus Cluster.”

Hux shook his head. “How many races live within the Argus Cluster?”

Neska shrugged. She didn’t know the actual number, but she knew the figure that people typically bandied about. “A thousand. More.”

“And your people have had contact with all of them?”

Neska shook her head. “No, but…”

“The galaxy has millions of sapient races. The majority of them have rarely, if ever, been contacted by aliens. They languish in obscurity, not because the starfaring civilizations can’t find them or reach them, but because there are just too many of them, and no one really cares. Most people actively avoid them, in fact. Colonial civilizations would rather find unsettled worlds, trading civilizations only seek out worlds that are technologically advanced or mineral-rich, and conquering civilizations look no further than the worlds nearest their borders. Nobody is interested in the pre-warp civilizations native to your little radioactive briar patch. No offense. So, unless your tega leaf and liquor have more exotic effects than the countless minor intoxicants of a million other worlds, I’m afraid I can’t put more value on this list than… say, a hundred credits.”

Neska stared into Hux’s apologetic eyes, her mind racing, her expression carefully neutral. She wouldn’t let herself believe that this expedition had just hit a dead end.

“What about argivium, then?”

“Argivium is the name you give to a lot of unrelated minerals and alloys,” said Hux. “Your ship is constructed with argivium-one and argivium-nine in your deflector cone, and you use argivium-seventeen, twenty-two, thirty-four, and thirty-eight in your ram scoop, photothermal radiators, EPS conduits, fusion reactor, and computer systems. Yes?”

Neska swallowed. Argivium was about the most expensive necessity for any star-sailing vessel, and the  _ Hypereia  _ needed every scrap that it had. “That’s right.”

Hux shook his head. “Duranium and tetraburnium are cheap to replicate. Verterium, diburnium, dilithium, yttrium, and praseodymium are effectively free. Are there any other types of argivium in your holds?”

Neska shook her head, stymied again. How powerful was Hux’s space station, really, if the legacy of the Argivians didn’t even rate with him?

“Again,” said Neska, “All we’re asking for are mundane components. You already told us they were trivial to make. Surely, some ‘cheap’ argivium would be worth more.”

Hux sighed. “Your components are trivial, yes, but powering this station isn’t, and opening wormholes is anything but, I assure you. And providing hospitality to our guests sets us back a bit, as well.

Neska’s quills bristled. “We didn’t ask for all this!” She waved around at the elaborate illusion of a spring morning on a lakeside resort. “You told us admission was free.”

Hux put up a placating hand. “And it is,” he said. “But that’s only possible because our business model favors high-value exchanges. If you don’t have the money, I understand. You’re free to enjoy your refreshments, admire the view from this patio, and head on back to your ship with no hard feelings.”

Neska narrowed her eyes at the hologram. He clearly hadn’t forgotten how dire their circumstances were. He knew very well that she couldn’t afford to walk away just like that. She debated doing it anyway, just to see if he was bluffing, but she didn’t like her odds. “We surely must have something you value, then. I know you dug around in our computer. You know our language. You know how our ship is designed. Surely, you must have seen  _ something _ that appealed to you _ ,  _ or you wouldn’t have invited us in.”

A shrewd, hesitant look crossed Hux’s face, and Neska was reminded of the conmen that hung around in seedy bars on every starbase and port town in the cluster, waiting for gullible travelers to take the bait on whatever clever scam they had in the offing.

“Well, since you asked…” said Hux, and he leaned forward in his seat. Neska braced herself. 

“I’d like some tissue samples,” said Hux. “Just a little blood and marrow. No more than a cubic fligtag per sample.”

Neska couldn’t conceal her surprise. It wasn’t what she’d expected. She shook her head. “You already have our DNA…”

“Yes, and I’m legally forbidden to use it for anything not expressly spelled out in the Terms of Service. However, if I could have blood and tissue samples from up to three members of every species in your crew, and the rights to use your genetic and biological materials as the Trade Hub and its proprietors see fit…”

“Why, though?” said Neska. “What could you possibly want with that?”

“The Trade Hub has a vast library of genetic information and biomolecular machinery, and we are always looking to expand it.”

“But what will you do with it?” said Neska.

“Study it. Your genes might hold secrets for enhancing anything from neuro-quantum computing to biomimetic replication. Biological evolution is the single most productive tool for innovation in this galaxy.”

“But… how can I be sure you won’t use it to make clones or chimeras from our tissues?”

Hux shook his head. “You can’t. If the need arose for a Faiacian clone, I wouldn’t hesitate to create one. I can’t foresee any set of circumstances that would necessitate such a thing, though. And even if the need arose, I can’t see how the existence of such a clone would affect you in any way.”

Neska weighed the prospect, and although she hated the idea, she had to admit it beat the thought of stripping argivium from  _ Hypereia’s  _ circuits _ . _

“We would want a lot for it,” said Neska.

Hux nodded. “Of course. I’ve catalogued the presence of nine species on your ship, including thirty-nine Faiacians, seven Ilians, five Alixindrians, three Hobori, two Antwerbians, one Refflik, and one Hald’pii. If I’m granted samples from your Refflik,” he gestured at Hrrglrich, who froze with his tongue hanging in his drink, “your Hald’pii, both your Antwerbians, and three of each of your other species, as well as samples from each plant and animal species in your garden, three distinct samples of garden soil, and permission to use any and all genetic and biological samples I gather from your ship as the Trade Hub and its proprietors see fit, then I can grant you five hundred thousand credits.”

Neska shot to her feet. “ _ Half?! _ That’s all you’d give us? For all that, you’d give us precisely  _ half  _ of what we need?”

Hux turned his hands palms up, entreating. “I know it’s not everything you wanted, but it’s a start.”

“You’re swindling us, Mr. Hux. You’ve demanded nothing less than the living essence of one-fifth of our crew to give us  _ half  _ of what we need, although you admit you could as easily give it to us for free! What will you demand for the rest?”

“Let’s put a pin in that for the time being,” said Hux. “Dr. Haxle and I are in the process of reviewing the data in his Argivian chips, and the information they contain is on track to cover a significant portion of your costs.”

Neska flashed a bitter smile. “‘A significant portion,’ you say. And he’s agreed to give up his data, just like that?”

Hux nodded. “He has.”

“Does he understand how little value you actually place on it? Or does he still think he’ll make his fortune on this expedition?”

“I can’t speak to that,” said Hux.

Neska pulled out her mobile and signaled Dr. Haxle. He didn’t respond. She cast a resentful glare at Hux, still sitting comfortably at the table. He flashed a tight-lipped smile. Neska signaled Rajak instead.

As her mobile sought a connection, Hux said, “If you tell Dr. Haxle how much of his credit you’ll need, do you suppose he’ll still be willing to share it with you?”

Rajak accepted her connection. She’d chosen video protocol so she could talk to him face-to-face. He appeared on her screen backed by a leafy plant with big, white flowers.

“Everything ok?” said Rajak.

“Tell the doctor to stop giving his data to the station,” said Neska.

Rajak snorted. “I’ve tried.”

“Tell him the station’s trying to cheat him!” said Neska.

The smirk on Rajak’s face vanished, and he looked off-screen. “Did you hear that, Doc? Neska says the station’s cheating you.”

A moment later, the image on the screen twirled around, and Haxle’s face appeared against the backdrop of a tabletop computer in front of rows of bookshelves.

“What are you on about, Neska?” said Dr. Haxle.

“Has Hux told you what he plans to pay you for all that data you’re sharing with him?” she cast a resentful glance at Hux at the same time Haxle cast a questioning glance off-screen, presumably also at Hux.

“He’s agreed to let me choose half the data we recover from the chips and convert it to a format I can read on an Alixindrian computer.”

Neska’s brow furrowed. “After repairs, though, right?”

Haxle sighed. “Yes, if your bits and baubles can’t cover all the repairs, I’ll sacrifice some of the data to help you.” He leaned in towards the screen, and his voice dropped. “But you’ll owe me.”

Neska shook her head sadly. “Dr. Haxle, even with everything I can offer the station, it will still cost more than your data is worth to cover the repairs.”

Haxle raised an incredulous brow. “What, to replace servos and ball bearings?” He looked to his Hux, and his expression of incredulity slowly turned to worry. The connection dropped.

Neska looked back to Hux. He tutted softly. “That was awfully kind of you,” he said. “Now, what will you do if he refuses to pay?”

Neska crossed her arms. “What will  _ you  _ do if he stops giving you data?”

Hux shrugged. “I was intrigued by the data, at first,” he said. “I was wondering what could have happened to the Argivians over the past few millennia.”

Neska found she was curious, in spite of herself. “Did you know them?”

Hux tilted his head side to side. “We had some dealings. Of course, it’s not uncommon for an empire to crumble, even a large and powerful one like Argivia. But to be wiped out utterly, without so much as a subspace buoy to mark their remains?”

“We’ve got history books, you know,” said Neska. “We could sell you a few, if you can afford them.”

Hux smiled and nodded. “That’d be worth a few credits. Thirty or forty, depending on the quality.”

Neska imitated his smile and nod. “I’ll be interested to see how much you’ll pay for the rest of that data, if I can just get Haxle to quit spoon-feeding it to you.”

She signaled Rajak’s mobile again.

Rajak answered. He didn’t look happy. He was walking, glancing back over his shoulder as he went. When he turned back to his mobile, he spoke in a low voice. “Neska, why’d you go and tell him that? He’s considering reneging on our deal.”

“You can’t let him, Rajak,” said Neska. “He made an agreement with the captain. Tell him we won’t let him back on board the ship if he breaks it.”

“I’ll do my best to make sure he sees sense,” said Rajak. “But you sure haven’t made it easy on me.”

“We need to keep a tight hold on that data, Rajak.” She glanced at Hux, aware that he heard every word she was saying. “If we can’t get the station to raise its offer, we won’t like what we wind up having to pay.”

She shared a look with Rajak, and he finally seemed to understand. He nodded. “I’ll keep the doc in line.”

“I admire your cunning spirit,” said Hux. “Honestly. You’re a born negotiator, but this is a waste of time. Those chips aren’t worth as much as you seem to think.”

Neska waved her finger at Hux. “Something tells me they are, though.” She paused to collect her thoughts. “I brought along every object of value from my ship. Not just fabrics, drinks, and tega, but every trinket, every bit of jewelry, and every scrap of silver and gold. I offered you argivium. I even offered you history books, since knowledge is clearly your preferred currency. You turned your nose up at all of it. What did you ask for instead? Blood and marrow. A lot of it. In exchange for what?”

There was a beat of quiet as Neska continued working through the conundrum.

“Was that not rhetorical?” said Hux. “Half a million credits.”

“In exchange for exactly  _ half  _ of what we need. Meanwhile, Dr. Haxle brings his precious chips, and in less time than it took for Kleg to finish that bowl of hobnuts, you worked out a deal to trade those chips for only  _ half  _ the data they contain. I’m seeing a pattern, here.”

Hux shook his head. “Half the data was my offer, sight-unseen. If the data on those chips had been more promising, I would have done quite nicely on that deal. Unfortunately, that hasn’t been the case. Most of those chips are worthless. Trite entertainments. Blockchain ledgers. Shipping manifests.”

“All it takes is one, though, right?” said Neska. “That’s what Dr. Haxle always says. All it takes is one good find to repay an investment tenfold.”

Hux eyed her for a moment. “The odds don’t favor it,” he said.

Neska arched a brow. “Odds are only half of the equation. Risk and reward, that’s the other half. What would you be risking, if you just gave us everything we needed in exchange for that data? Just some parts you can replicate for free. And what might the reward be? Something great, I bet. The Argivians had a lot of secrets.”

Hux sighed. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve already settled on the price. It’s not open for negotiation.”

Neska studied him closely. He didn’t sweat. He didn’t fidget. He was the very picture of confidence and calm.

But he was a hologram, after all.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re bluffing.”

Hux just shrugged and shook his head.

Neska turned around and headed for the door. “Come on, you two,” she said to Greg and Hrrglrich. “We’re headed to the library to get the others.”

“You can’t out-bluff me, Ms. Neska,” said Hux. “You don’t have the cards.”

Neska stopped and turned a disgusted look on the hologram. “You’re about the most degenerate…  _ thing _ I’ve ever met,” she said. “You lord your power over us. You brag that everything we have is worthless, and you could solve all our problems effortlessly if there were only something in it for you. You try to extort us of our blood and marrow, you try to cheat Dr. Haxle out of the last scrap of his fortune with promises you never intended to keep. And even after all of that, I’ll wager this quill right here,” and she tugged on the long quill framing the left side of her face, “that it never would have been enough. So what were you going to demand next?”

Hux looked genuinely wounded. “Honestly, if something valuable turns up in the data, it could make all the difference! I’m not out to get you.”

Neska shook her head. “Whatever the value comes out to, it won’t  _ quite  _ be enough. You tipped your hand. ‘A significant portion,’ that’s what you said. What will you demand to cover the rest? Slaves? Living sacrifices?”

Hux cringed. “You make me out as a crook,” he said. “But I never lied to you. I never cheated. I’ve faithfully and dutifully represented Trade Hub policies and terms of service, as I am programmed to do. I can’t help the socioeconomic gap that makes it such a challenge for us to reach an equitable arrangement. I wish I could. I wish my pricing formulas didn’t put us in this bind, but they do. I can’t bend the rules for you. It’s not in my program.”

Neska shook her head and stormed out of the patio, back into the corridor of the space station. She turned and marched to the end of the hall, the footsteps of her men behind her reassuring her that they hadn’t abandoned her. She reached the platform at the end of the corridor where Rajak had been heading when she’d gone onto the patio. She looked around, hoping to spot another door or some kind of control interface for the platform. 

“Is this your lift?” she asked Hux. “Can it take me to the library?”

“Of course,” said Hux, and just as Hrrglrich stepped onto the pad, the station became a blur around them, instantly shifting from the corridor on the hangar deck to a library.

Neska felt a wave of light-headedness and fought through it. She was sick of being awed and amazed by this Neptis-forsaken place. She strode off of the platform, looked back, and saw Greg and Hrrglrich still rooted in place. “Come on, you bumpkins! What are you waiting for? You never seen a magic elevator before?”

Greg shook his head. “I never even  _ heard  _ of--”

“That was rhetorical,” Neska cut him off. “Let’s go, we need to find the others.”

“Right this way,” said Hux, and he led the group into the library.

Neska got about halfway down the first aisle Hux led them through when a shiny object caught her eye. It was a necklace. She dismissed it at first, but then she did a double-take. The necklace was really more of a pendant, with a gemstone the size of an eyeball surrounded by a dozen smaller gems of different colors. The metal looked like gold, but with a subtle shimmer that hinted at the presence of argivium ninety-three, one of the rarest, most valuable substances known in the Argus Cluster.

The pendant was just mounted on the shelf. It wasn’t in a case. It wasn’t even labeled.

“Good eye,” said Hux, “That’s--”

“Extremely valuable, I’m sure,” Neska cut him off. She looked around and spotted a number of curious objects on the shelves; artifacts and treasures that would cost the crew of  _ Hypereia  _ a thousand turns’ wages in any sane marketplace, which this place decidedly was not. 

Neska glanced back at Hrrglrich and Greg. Hrrglrich was about a fligtag away from brushing a shelf of books with his furry shoulder. Greg was actually picking absentmindedly at the binding of an ancient book, studying a gem-encrusted alien spyglass with interest.

“Step away from the shelves!” Neska barked, startling her two subordinates. Hrrglrich jumped and knocked over the books by his shoulder, sending a bookend over the edge of the shelf. The small bust of some antenna-headed alien clattered to the rug, and Neska’s team froze in mortification. Hux ambled over and bent down as if to pick up the bookend, and as his hand drew near, the object floated up into the air in front of his fingers.

“Oh, wow!” said Greg as Hux apparently levitated the object up to his face for close inspection. It was carved from some sort of shiny black stone, and though Neska couldn’t identify the material, the level of detail in the hand-carved artifact certainly made it look valuable. It tumbled lazily in the air in front of Hux for a moment before he sent it back to its place on the shelf, the books rising back to their upright positions as the bookend settled.

“No harm, no foul,” said Hux, dusting his hands, and Neska breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“Is there, maybe, a children’s area, somewhere nearby?” she asked Hux. “Somewhere with nothing fragile or valuable within reach, where my associates can wait?” To which, Hux arched an eyebrow before nodding understanding.

<strike> -o--o--o- </strike>

“I understand you’re upset,” said Hux. Haxle didn’t want to hear it. He was pacing back and forth along the bank of the creek, trying to let the soft music of rushing water soothe his nerves so he could think things through.

When he’d first arrived on the station, Dr. Haxle had taken an immediate liking to his spectral host. He had been so starved for refined company the past three hundred turns, Hux’s effortless charms and faultless manners had made him lower his guard without even realizing it. 

And when he’d arrived at the library, Haxle had felt a powerful sense of being home again. The smell was remarkably similar to the libraries of Alixindri. It was amazing how pages of paper cut from trees under far-distant stars could smell almost the same. Haxle had strolled through the aisles of this grand library, impeccably preserved in spite of being entombed in a nether realm for more than ten thousand Alixindrian years, admiring the artifacts on display. The choice of decorations, the balanced color palette, the careful arrangement of the furniture and the treasures on display demonstrated an impressive understanding of the principles of interior design that was lacking in most cultures. Truly, the Delurididug were people of impeccable taste and incredible wealth. Haxle could almost imagine that he was walking through a library on Argivia before the fall. 

To Haxle’s delight, there were no garish labels or barricades obstructing the showpieces. He was perfectly comfortable discerning which items he could or couldn’t touch without permission, and he had full confidence in his team of highly-trained archaeologists, as well. Hux was more than happy to describe any item that caught his eye, and each artifact seemed to have a fascinating story, offering a tantalizing peek into a vast and vibrant galaxy, which, until this day, Haxle had always considered as little more than a barren, vacant wasteland beyond the warm embrace of the Argus Cluster.

By the time they got down to business, Haxle had no fears of being hustled or mistreated in any way. No such intelligent and refined a culture as the Delurididug could possibly succumb to such base tactics. Hux had expressed a keen interest in Dr. Haxle’s trove of Argivian data, and he had been completely forthright and honest when he’d revealed his ability to read and transcribe the data on the chips. The price for the service had been steep, of course. Dr. Haxle had tried to talk him down, but he perfectly understood Hux’s position, and he wasn’t surprised when the computer projection refused to budge. Frankly, Haxle might have been suspicious if Hux had made a more generous offer. Whenever a deal seemed too good to be true, it almost always was.

But now, it seemed that Hux had been playing another angle all along. He’d never lied to Dr. Haxle, but he’d withheld vital information without a qualm.

Haxle stopped his pacing and whirled about on the hologram. “ _ Why _ won’t you accept my colleagues’ trade goods? All they want are some dirt-cheap parts.”

“As I’ve already explained to Ms. Neska, it’s simply a matter of overhead,” said Hux.

“ _ Overhead? _ ” Haxle echoed, but he understood all too well. Solaad’s people weren’t worth trading with. They were too poor to even bother. Haxle sighed in frustration. “Fine, fair enough. Their crap is basically worthless to you, I get that. But  _ this-- _ ” said Haxle, holding up the data chip in his hand; the last one he’d picked up before Neska called.

“ _ That  _ is not worth nearly as much as I’d hoped,” said Hux. “I haven’t found anything particularly useful so far, and so I’ve revised my estimates for its value.”

“But we had a deal!” shouted Haxle.

Hux put up his hands in a placating gesture. “Yes, and I will stick to it. You will get your data unless you choose to trade it for something else. It’s simply that you won’t get as much as you might have hoped if you do.”

Haxle eyed the hologram suspiciously. In spite of the predicament the computer program had landed him in, it still proclaimed its innocence with conviction. Haxle wasn’t buying it anymore. “You must have known this was a likely outcome, but you kept your mouth shut,” he said. “For such a civilized place, that was a decidedly uncivil act! So what else aren’t you telling me?”

Hux opened his mouth to respond, then paused to consider. “A great deal, I’m afraid,” he confessed. “Information is our greatest resource. I’m not programmed to share more than is required for the sake of facilitating trade and maintaining our high standards of hospitality.”

“Our  _ trade _ ,” spat Haxle, and he waved his data chip for emphasis, “would have been greatly facilitated if you hadn’t over-blown the value of my merchandise!”

“That was never my intent.”

Haxle balled up a fist, torn for a moment between lashing out at the hologram or drawing his honor blade and driving it into the table. He reminded himself that either action would be futile and only result in him looking like a fool. He took a deep breath instead, shutting his eyes and listening to the running water.

“Is there  _ any  _ way,” Haxle said before opening his eyes again, “to get the  _ Hypereia  _ spaceworthy again, without sacrificing my data?”

“Well, that depends on your standard for space-worthiness,” said Hux.

Dr. Haxle cocked his head thoughtfully. “Really? So, say we only repaired the vessel enough to achieve…” Haxle tried to run the numbers in his head, but relativistic physics was difficult enough  _ without _ considering the tachyon warp effect. “Well, say we were willing to make the trip to port in sixty-four turns.”

“Hey, Doc!” Rajak cut in. He was sitting against the hardwood computer terminal, listening passively to their conversation until this moment.

“Stay out of this, Rajak!” said Dr. Haxle.

“It would depend on your acceptable risk margins, and the amount of supplies you’d like to stock up on while your garden is out of commission.”

Haxle nodded thoughtfully. “Say, no more than a ten percent chance of critical failure, and minimum supplies for the survival of the crew.”

Hux opened his mouth to reply, but Haxle cut him off. “Scratch that,” he said, “Neska will mind the garden. It won’t collapse completely. Say… three-quarters of the minimum supplies to sustain the crew.”

“No, scratch all of this!” said Rajak. He stood up and shoved his way through Hux’s intangible form to stand in Haxle’s face. “You won’t be allowed back on board the ship if you do this, Haxle! Remember, we had a deal!”

Haxle looked down his nose at the much shorter Faiacian. “Any supplies paid for by  _ my  _ data will stay with  _ me.  _ Solaad won’t turn me away on principle; not when I have a portion of your vital supplies.”

Rajak’s hand went to his holster, but he didn't draw his weapon. Haxle saw his hesitation and sneered at the empty threat. “Go ahead,” he told him.

“So, this is pretty much what I expected to see when I got here,” said Neska. She stood at the top of the flagstone bridge, looking down on them.

Haxle and Rajak stared back for a moment.

“Where are the others?” said Rajak.

Neska snorted. “You really think I’d bring Kleg and Herglerich into this place? Hux is keeping them comfortable in a play area.”

Haxle turned back to the table, intentionally bumping shoulders with Rajak as he passed. “You haven’t answered my question,” Haxle said to Hux.

“For that much, your ship will need to supply the blood, marrow, and soil samples I previously discussed with Ms. Neska, and you will be able to retain about twelve percent of your data,” said Hux, “assuming the remaining data chips are of similar quality to the rest.” 

“That’s it?”

Hux nodded.

“Is there…  _ anything _ else you might accept?”

“Dr. Haxle, quit being stupid!” said Neska. Haxle ignored her.

Hux looked uncomfortable. “Well, there  _ is  _ something, but it’s a bit… extreme. Not a lot of close-knit crews are willing to consider it.”

“Well, what is it?” said Haxle.

Hux still looked reluctant. “I don’t wish to offend you,” he said. 

Haxle had a sinking feeling. Still, he asked again, “What is it?”

“The Delurididug business model places a premium on the services of sentient organic lifeforms,” said Hux.

Haxle was still processing his meaning as Hux went on, “Our organic assets are looked after with care. We tend diligently to both their physical and psychological needs, and we see to it that they do not suffer needlessly. In fact, our assets often find life in our organization to be a step up from--”

“Slaves!” said Neska. “I  _ knew  _ it! He wants slaves!” she said to Rajak. Then she looked Haxle in the eye.

“Are you going to sell your own men into slavery, Doctor?” said Neska. “Because you sure as shek can’t have any of  _ ours. _ ”

Haxle looked at her with uncertainty, then looked back at Hux, badly wanting to believe that Hux was talking about something else.

“I’m not asking you to do anything illegal, of course,” said Hux. “However, your vessels sail under the flag of the Faiacian Free Commerce Association, which, to my knowledge, has no statutes that explicitly ban the trafficking of sentients, and as far as I can gather, Alixindri laws on the subject are explicitly limited to the boundaries of Alixindri territory. Still, by FFCA guidelines, it would have to be voluntary on the part of the--” Hux stopped talking when Haxle shook his head.

“Even if I were willing, none of my men would volunteer,” he said.

Hux looked thoughtful. “Perhaps if you and I spoke to them together, and we expressed the direness of the situation…”

Haxle shook his head even more vigorously. “No,” he said. “Alixindri are civilized. I won’t try talking my people into slavery just to aid my own fortunes.” He cast a glance at Neska and registered the relief in her eyes. He was simultaneously gratified and offended by her reaction. Did she really think he might sell his men into  _ slavery _ ? He was Alixindri!

Hux took a deep breath and sighed. “All right,” he said. “Twelve percent it is, if all parties are agreed.”

“Shek no, we’re not agreed!” said Neska.

Haxle walked up to the computer terminal. He fingered the chip in his hand, studying the delicate tracings on its surface; the minute veins of argivium that gave the chips their incredible storage capabilities. Even twelve percent of the data contained in these chips would take a decade to sort out. Twelve percent would  _ still _ be the find of the century.

Haxle glanced back at Neska and shrugged his shoulders. “You’ll come around,” he said, and he popped the chip into the reader.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen fights for his life against a horde of angry cannibals.

CHAPTER 7

Po Smols towered over Owen, a long, blood-soaked dagger in his meaty fist, while the glowing, electric-blue eyeball of his god looked on. Po Kheei held Owen firmly by his shoulders. Owen’s wrists were bound in front of him in thick, magnetically locked manacles. There were three more Po Lafimas standing witness, plus two massive, heavily-armed guards stationed at the door.

Owen figured it was high time he quit playing the harmless pet and showed these overgrown anteaters what an experienced and decorated Starfleet security officer could do.

In one fluid motion, he thrust his shoulders up into the hands gripping him and let his weight drop, slipping Po Kheei’s grip. He scrambled away from the cluster of Po Lafimas, trying to create as much distance as possible. The Po Lafimas reacted quickly, fanning out to cover any angle of escape and backing Owen up to the wall.

Owen was only a little bit worried. He still had his ace. He thrust his shackled hands down his uniform pants, fumbling with the waistband of his boxers. When the guards had searched him before, he had thanked his lucky stars that he’d managed to keep possession of his underwear, even if they’d been down around his ankles. He’d been traveling with the Po Lafimas for well over a week now, and that was the closest they’d come to discovering the unassuming device he’d kept hidden there.

Owen pulled out his type-one phaser and waved it threateningly at the Po Lafimas closing on him, trying to communicate the danger the little weapon implied. It wasn’t much bigger than Owen’s thumb. To them, it must have looked like a children’s toy. “Stay back or I’ll shoot!” said Owen, and he set the phaser on heavy stun, widest dispersal. Type-one’s weren’t quite as powerful as the service-standard type-two’s, but the little devices could still pack quite a punch.

Po Kheei huffed in contempt of his tiny weapon and strode towards him confidently.

“Wait!” The Eye of Po boomed, just as Owen pressed the firing stud.

He expected a clean wash of red-orange light. It could have neatly immobilized all five of the assembled Po Lafimas in one sweep, if only it had operated as intended.

Instead, a disco ball spray of fractured phaser energy splashed out in all directions randomly. The backwash from the misfire sent a mild jolt of phaser energy up Owen’s arm, making him drop the weapon, even as phaser energy hit Po Kheei in the eye, making him stumble to his knees, clutching his eye with his hands. The others took errant bolts of energy as well, and Po Janis and her men were momentarily reeling. Po Smols, though, hardly seemed to notice the energy beams striking him in the torso and shoulder. He was so worked up from the death of his captain, he wouldn’t have blinked if the phaser had cut a hole straight through him. 

He advanced on Owen with a determined glint in his eye. Owen stooped to retrieve the phaser, only to find that the weapon was too hot to hold. He jerked back his singed fingers and registered the rising whine of the phaser building up to an overload.

He looked up at the enraged Po Lafimas, now lunging at him with his dagger, and he thought fast.

Owen deflected Po Smol’s first slash with his manacles and twisted to the side, delivering a sharp kick to the back of Po Smol’s knee, sending the overbalanced Lafimas stumbling into the wall.

The rising whine of the phaser was nearing the critical point where it would explode, so Owen kicked it towards the Eye of Po, turned and found Po Janis and her men towering over him.

Owen dove between them, but they were quick enough to nab him. Owen thrashed and kicked against their grip and succeeded at being dropped to the deck, surrounded on all sides.

The phaser whine reached fever pitch. Owen clenched his eyes shut and covered his head with his arms, and the Eye of Po shouted, “Get rid of this device!”

BOOM!

Heavy steel stools and fragmentary debris flew out from the blast point, leveling the Po Lafimas around Owen. Po Janis had been standing between Owen and the Eye, and she took the worst of it, collapsing on Owen like a ton of bricks. Owen struggled his way out from under the bloody heap of her body and quickly assessed his surroundings. Po Janis’s men were immobilized, possibly dead. Janis was almost certainly dead.

Po Kheei was on his hands and knees, looking up in horror at the Eye of Po, which was staring listlessly up at the ceiling, a spiderweb of cracks plastering its scorched underside. It was an impressively durable being, or object, whatever it was, considering the size of the crater centered directly underneath it.

“What has happened?” the Eye’s voice boomed. “Tell me what has happened!” Each time it spoke, its voice was shrouded in escalating white noise.

With a loud crack, a new break appeared in the surface of the Eye, and black smoke issued from the crack. Its blue light began to waver. The long slit of its pupil wandered sightlessly.

The sound of a stool clattering to the deck drew Owen’s attention to Po Smols, pushing himself up to his feet again. His eye went to the Eye of Po in horror, and he turned his tear-or-blood-streaked snout on Owen.

Owen turned to run, only to come up short. The two guards, who until now had flanked the door of the room from outside, stood about ten meters in front of him, their head-mounted electric weapons trained on him. If his estimates of their capabilities were accurate, he was about at the boundary of their effective range where he stood. Po Smols was charging him from his left, Po Kheei was blithering broken honorifics to the Eye behind him, and the guards were advancing on him from ahead, so Owen broke right.

There was nowhere to go, though. He reached the bulkhead, stopped, hefted up a stool, and spun around in time to find Po Smols sailing through the air at him with the outstretched dagger. Owen didn’t have time to bring the stool to bear, so he just dodged right and let Po Smols collide with the bulkhead.

Owen hoped for a messy crash. Instead, Smols took the impact gamely in his shoulder and whirled around on Owen with the blade still raised. Owen blocked his next lunge with his stool, only to come within a hair’s breadth of losing his nose to Smols’ pincers. The Po Lafimas grabbed him by the shoulder and thrust his snout towards Owen’s face, but Owen grabbed his tusks with his shackled hands and lifted his feet off the ground, delivering a double kick to his underbelly while supporting his full weight on Smols’ snout.

Smols wasn’t particularly impressed. He thrust the dagger at Owen’s midsection, and Owen did his best to twist out of the way, but the dagger sliced through his right flank and punched a hole through the folds of his jacket. Owen let go of the Lafimas’ tusks, falling to the ground with the knife still tangled in his clothing. 

Relieved of his weapon, Smols made a grab for Owen with both hands. Owen stumbled back, out of his reach, and turned and ran for the doors, fully aware that he was charging into the kill zone of the door guards’ lightning guns.

As he’d hoped, Smols stayed hot on his heels. The guards couldn’t fire while one of their own was so close to their target; lightning guns weren’t exactly precision instruments. Instead, the guards stood shoulder-to-shoulder to block his path, tusks of bone and electrified steel spread wide. Owen bounded onto a stool and launched himself for all he was worth up into the air, letting the half gravity carry him over their heads. He twisted in midair and landed on the back of one, grabbed his tusks in his bound hands, wrenched his head around on his fellow guard, plunged his thumb into the guard’s mouth and took hold of the cable that ran from his weapon to his lip tentacle, and he tugged.

Just as Owen had hoped, the weapon fired, delivering a sharp crack of lightning through the head of the other guard. 

As his partner collapsed dead, the guard beneath Owen raged, thrashing his head side to side, trying to grab hold of Owen with arms that didn’t have the range of motion to reach his own back. Owen held on for all he was worth, throwing his weight to the guard’s overbalanced side and making him stumble.

The guard found himself squarely facing Po Smols, who stared back with a stupefied expression before Owen tugged the trigger cord again.

Lightning cracked, and Po Smols collapsed in a heap. Owen looked down at the infuriated eye of the guard, who glared right back up at him. Owen didn’t dare release the guard’s tusks, and he couldn’t hold his position on the guard’s back much longer. After firing twice, the battery pack strapped to the guard’s back was getting intolerably hot against Owen’s sternum.

Owen used the only weapon left at his disposal. He opened his mouth wide and bit down on the guard’s eyeball.

The guard screamed and fired his weapon blindly, spraying the room with lightning. His scream transformed into an ear-splitting bugle; an unmistakable call-to-arms to his people. Po Kheei, still nursing the dying Eye of Po, finally seemed to notice the scene unfolding around him. 

The guard’s battery grew hot as an iron with the sustained fire, and Owen’s flesh began to sear. He relinquished his grip and fell to the ground, landing on his butt. The guard whipped his tusks around on him as Owen scrambled backward like a crab until he bumped into the bulkhead. The guard fired blindly in his general direction, washing the wall and floor with electricity, landing a few errant jolts close enough to light up Owen’s nerves and make his muscles spasm, and he was sure that at any moment a bolt of lightning would strike him directly, and that would be the end. But a second later, the spray died out, reduced to a thin stream of electricity that arced between the weapon’s two metallic tusks. The weapon had finally run out of juice.

Owen rolled over and came up to his feet as the guard stumbled blindly forward, snapping at the air in vain hope of finding Owen between his tusks.

“You sniveling little rat!” bellowed Po Kheei. “You think you can stand against the Po?”

He was striding purposefully towards Owen, now. “You’re a toxin! You’re a coward!”

Owen circled quickly and quietly around the blind guard and over to his dead colleague. Kheei quickly realized what he was doing and broke into a charge. Owen dove for the dead guard’s head, dragged it around by the tusks towards Po Kheei, and yanked on the firing cable just as Po Kheei lunged for him.

Lightning surged through the enraged cyclops mid-lunge, and Kheei stumbled, falling flat. His eye stayed fixed on Owen, glaring hate at him with his last breath.

For a brief moment, the only noises were the stumbles and curses of the blinded guard. Owen dearly wished he could take the opportunity to rest and nurse his wounds, but if all the fighting hadn’t alerted other Po Lafimas nearby of trouble, the guard’s bugle surely must have.

Owen dug hurriedly through the pouches of the dead guard’s armor.

“Hello?” said the blind guard. “Who’s there? Friend or foe?” His head swung towards the sound of Owen’s ruffling. Then he turned in the vague direction of the Eye. “Your Gloriousness?” he called, “Begging your pardon, but are you with us?”

The Eye of Po had died out so slowly that Owen’s eyes had adjusted to the dimmer light of the wall sconces and the hallway light coming in through the open doors without noticing. The room was darker, and yet, color had returned.

Owen found what he was looking for in the guard’s hip pocket and sighed in relief. It had been a fifty-fifty shot that the living guard would have been the one carrying it instead.

At the sound of Owen’s sigh, the guard whipped around on him. “You! Alien! You’ll regret this!” he shouted, and then he raised his snout into the air and let out a second loud bugle, this one higher and more plaintive, calling even more desperately for help.

Owen grasped the keycard he’d found on the dead guard between two fingers and flicked it at the locking mechanism on his wrist, the little yellow light on the cuff flashed blue, and the manacles came loose. His hands free once more, Owen took a deep breath, summoned his waning strength, jumped up to his feet, and ran out into the corridor. The air vent opposite the doorway; that was his ticket. It was low to the deck but easily wide enough for him to fit through, if only he could get it open.

“It’s that alien!” bellowed someone down the corridor. Owen looked left and found yet another enraged Po Lafimas, plus an entourage of four more behind him. It was Po Denn leading the group. Owen recognized him by the grit in his voice and the sneer on his snout.

Owen kicked at the sturdy-looking vent grate, and to his surprise, his boot busted straight through the slats. They were rusted out. Finally, some luck!

“Where the shek are the guards? Halt!” shouted Po Denn, and he charged at Owen.

Owen kicked out a couple more slats, dropped onto his side, slipped his legs through the vent, and dropped himself blindly into the shaft.

He didn’t fall far. Po Denn caught him by the scruff of his uniform jacket and heaved him up again, trying to tug him back through the vent. Owen tried to struggle free of his uniform jacket, then he felt the blade of the dagger still buried in the cloth, tickling at his armpit. He caught the dagger by the handle, yanked it free, and slashed at Po Denn’s hand. The hulking creature howled in pain and let loose his grip, and Owen fell down the dark shaft.

He threw out his hands and feet and caught the metal walls of the shaft, stalling his descent. It would have been a much more difficult and painful maneuver in standard gravity, but his weight was currently half of what it usually was. Still, it was a very long way down, and if he fell, he’d reach a deadly velocity quickly enough. Below him, the dagger he’d just been holding tumbled down, knocking again and again into the walls of the ventilation shaft, echoing from farther and farther down. Owen couldn’t say when it finally hit the bottom, but it must have been somewhere near the outer crust of the station.

_ Now what? _

Owen supported himself against the walls of the breezy shaft, pondering his predicament. He was pretty sure he’d just killed the Po Lafimas’ god. They would do everything in their power to catch him, and they seemed to have pretty substantial pull with the station administration--which is to say, the administrators seemed scared of them. Would any place on this snowball be safe?

Owen heard conversation coming from the deck above him, and a light danced around the shaft over his head. The Po Lafimas had gathered over the place where he’d escaped, and one of them had slipped his head through the gap with a light tucked between his tusks, glaring down at him. Owen couldn’t stay here.

He took a steadying breath, steeled himself, and released his grip. He let himself fall a couple more decks, then threw his limbs out again. When he’d successfully arrested his descent, he repeated the process, trying not to build up too much momentum with each drop.

The next time, it was considerably harder to bring himself to a stop. He scraped his hands raw on the ridges of the shaft and tweaked his left knee the wrong way before he managed to break his fall completely.

“Either I’m getting tired, or I’m putting on weight,” Owen grumbled. Then he realized it was probably actually the latter. The lower he went in the station, the greater the spin would be. Of course his apparent weight would increase. At this rate, he’d be lucky if he managed to break his fall one more time.

Looking up, Owen saw the Po Lafimas beacon searching the shaft from about thirty meters above him. A little over a meter up, light bled in through another vent. Listening carefully, Owen could hear the chatter of distinctly un-Lafimas-sounding voices. He was reasonably sure he’d escaped the levels of the station controlled by the Po Lafimas.

Owen took a moment to summon a little more energy, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Unexpectedly, he was accosted by the image of a hate-filled Po Lafimas eye, blood or tears streaking his face under the neon blue glare of his malevolent god. 

Owen shook it off. He’d been in enough fights by now to recognize the first pangs of traumatic stress. Sometimes he still grappled with enraged Tzenkethi shocktroopers in his dreams, or fled over desert terrain with Kazon warriors lighting up the bone-dry soil under his boots. The counselors had helped, back when he’d still had access to Federation resources, but of course, it never went away completely. It was just a fact of life for a Starfleet security officer. Whatever the euphemism, he was a soldier. The Po Lafimas would just be one more specter haunting his sleepless nights. If he survived the day, that is.

He was very tired, but he wasn’t finding much rest in this position, so Owen resolved to suck it up and start climbing before his strength went out. He braced his hands and raised his feet a few inches, then braced his feet and slid his hands up a couple inches, and repeated again and again until he was at eye level with the vent.

Peering through the slats, he saw feet walking by in either direction. It was a corridor. Owen considered waiting until there was a lull in traffic and sneaking out, or else lowering himself to another deck and hoping for a quieter exit point, but he was starting to tremble with the effort of holding himself up, and he knew his only real alternative was a short trip down a long shaft. He braced himself against the shaft with his knees and his back, taking just enough pressure off his arms to free up one hand, and he started pounding on the vent.

The unrusted slats didn’t break so easily as they had on the higher deck, so he started calling. “Hey! Help! I’m trapped in here! I’m stuck!”

He kept an eye on the legs of pedestrians through the slats. First one pair, then another stopped outside the vent as he continued to shout. He heard them muttering to each other, and it occurred to him that they were most likely speaking a language no one in Starfleet had ever encountered before. His universal translator wouldn’t know how to process their words for his ears, nor his words for theirs. In fact, he’d probably just been shouting in Lafimasi. And considering he was using a subdermal implant instead of a comm badge, he couldn’t even make a manual adjustment.

Owen shut his mouth and listened. If his translator could just pick up a few minutes of ambient conversation, it could extrapolate enough information to start generating a rough translation.

“ _ Ik hemes deg romolenad horus Po Lafimas?” _

_ “Lafimasi ivenisted porik!” _

_ “Shek! Ig hosem deg absend kwo horndi!” _

One set of legs fled from Owen’s sight, even as a few more pairs began gathering to witness the spectacle.

One of the gathered people spoke directly at the vent. His voice sounded refreshingly humanoid if a bit phlegmy.

“ _ Sef imanun Po Lafimas?” _

“No Po Lafimas!” Owen called back. “Po Lafimas shek!” He made spitting noises.

_ “Sef imandich Po Lafimas?” _ he replied, doubt plain in his tone.

“ _ Imandich _ ,” Owen echoed. “ _ Imandich! _ ”

_ “ _ Offer  _ hoch!” _

“Offer what?” said Owen. He hoped that was a bit of standard finally starting to filter through his translator. “What do you want?”

“If you are not Po Lafimas,” said the alien, “Offer proof.”

Owen sighed in relief. “Proof! Right! See?” He stuck his fingers between the vent slats and wiggled them around.

“ _ Ollen  _ not Lafimas  _ wiggis,”  _ commented someone else nearby.

“Maybe  _ pung _ ,” the first man said doubtfully.

“Whatever pung is,” said Owen, “I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

“What  _ idju  _ are you  _ idjash _ ?”

“Where am I from?” Owen guessed. He wondered if these people would be as hostile to foreigners from outside the cluster as the Lafimas were. “A little backwater...” He considered what he’d picked up about local astrography, which wasn’t a whole hell of a lot, but he knew the names of the black holes, at least, and which one was farthest away. “Out near Plutis.”

The aliens conferred among themselves for a moment, and Owen willed his translator to pick up what his ears could not.

A new cluster of legs arrived on the scene, and one new arrival addressed the men gathered outside the vent. Meanwhile, Owen’s jacket and undershirt had slid up the length of his back as he’d slowly slid down the shaft, and his hands were getting slick with sweat, in spite of the cool air constantly rushing up at him.

“What’s the  _ shegril  _ here?” said one of the newcomers. He spoke with an authoritative baritone.

“There’s a  _ pagl  _ in the vent shaft,” said one of the men. “He  _ idjash _ several  _ idju _ ,  _ amar Lafimasi _ and some  _ weki Pellian.” _

“Could it be  _ Hald’pi?” _

“No, it showed its  _ wiggis _ ,” said the man. “Looked like  _ brug Alixindri. _ ”

“Can it speak  _ Alixindri _ ?”

“I’m not very  _ webbo  _ myself, so--”

The man in authority addressed the vent. “ _ Tilti oixaila?” _

“Please don’t start with another language,” said Owen, “I can’t understand it.”

“What are you?” said the man.

“I’m… My people are called Human! We’re from a little yellow dwarf system out past Plutis.”

“I’ve never heard of you,” said the man. “And I don’t know what ‘ _ yelodorf’  _ is, but there aren’t many  _ verdalla rem  _ near Plutis.”

“Well…” said Owen, and he grunted with the continued effort of holding his position, “We’re sort of a special case.”

“How did you get in there?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t hold on this way much longer. Could you please let me out?”

Outside, the men conferred for another couple minutes. Then Owen slipped and fell half a meter with a shout, breaking his fall by wedging his back against a jutting metal seam in the vent shaft. Judging by the searing pain and the sudden dampness on his back, he’d definitely torn his skin open. “Please hurry!” he called.

Within moments, the vent was removed from the opening, and two lanky, sand-complected men reached down and took hold of Owen’s wrists. Fortunately, they were long of limb and strong enough to heft him up without much help from Owen. The men laid Owen out flat on the deck, and Owen savored the relief of solid ground and open space.

“Are you ok?” said the man who’d spoken with authority before. He and the man who’d helped him were wearing identical orange jumpsuits, and from the tags and decorations on their sleeves and chests, it was easy to conclude that they were station security.

“I’m just…” He winced in pain. “...dandy,” said Owen.

“He’s covered in blood!” said the other security officer.

Owen picked up his head and looked himself over. Through the spots that had suddenly sprung up in his vision, he saw that his clothing was completely disheveled. There were holes burnt through his undershirt revealing big, angry red blisters on his chest and the bottom of his ribcage from lying on an extremely hot battery. He was drenched head-to-toe in syrupy yellow Po Lafimas blood, and there was a weeping gash on his flank where the dagger had grazed him, though thankfully not as deeply as he’d feared. Now that he had a moment to spare to consider his physical condition, his body began filing hundreds of painful complaints.

“Doesn’t look like it’s his,” said the first. “Mostly, at least. Get medical,” he told a third security officer standing by. “We’ll take care of you,” the man told Owen. “But now you need to tell me what happened.”

Owen nodded, but the spots were multiplying, and the coriolis of the station seemed to have suddenly tripled. “You see,” he mumbled, letting his eyes drift closed. “It started… It all started… with a girl.” And he was out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux stalls for time.

CHAPTER 8

"Stop it, Doctor! You'll doom us all!" Ms. Neska shouted at the Alixindrian archaeologist, but he paid her no need. Dr. Haxle slipped yet another Argivian data chip into Hux's device, and Hux set about scanning its contents.

All he found was long-obsolete census data for an obscure planetary colony. Worthless.

Ms. Neska took a menacing step towards the Alixindrian, but Rajak put a restraining hand on her shoulder. She turned a questioning look on him, and he gave her a resolute nod before striding forward himself. He reached for Dr. Haxle's arm.

Given the precarious state of the organics' emotions and the myriad unfavorable outcomes that might arise if tensions continued to escalate, Hux judged it prudent to intercede. He raised a kinetic barrier between Mr. Rajak and Dr. Haxle, which manifested as a hexagonal grid of blue light the moment Rajak's hand came within two centimeters of Dr. Haxle.

Rebuffed, the Faiacian turned a dubious glare on Hux. "Did that look like an act of violence to you?"

"Dr. Haxle and I are engaged in a business transaction," said Hux. As always, he maintained an air of calmness and civility. "I ask that you do not interrupt. If you're no longer interested in negotiating ship repair and maintenance, there are numerous other services that the Trade Hub has to offer. Feel free to name your desire. Or, if you like, I could provide you with a catalogue of our offerings for your perusal."

Mr. Rajak glared at Hux for a long moment. His heart rate, already elevated, spiked momentarily, but outwardly, he affected nonchalance. He turned to Ms. Neska and his other underlings. "Let's get back to _Hypereia_," he said.

Neska gave him a searching look, then she nodded. "You're right. This is a dead end." The two led their party over the bridge to the other side of the library.

"Have a safe trip," said Dr. Haxle.

They didn't reply.

"Make sure you have all those tissue samples in order when you come back!" he called as they disappeared from view. Haxle glanced after them for a lingering moment. His cortisol levels were climbing, and his breathing was slightly labored, but he only shrugged his shoulders and reached back into his carrying case. There was a slight tremble in his fingers. He fumbled a chip as he lifted it from the case, but he recovered it quickly. He was nervous, but he was determined.

This chip proved to contain a library of virtual reality scenarios. They would be easy enough to adapt for the Trade Hub's facilities. However, their entertainment value was limited. They appeared to be training scenarios for workers in a clerical processing center. Worthless.

Hux judged the odds of the people from _Hypereia _returning with the specified organic samples at about seventy-eight percent, with a twenty-one percent margin of error. Even after collating the data from their ship's computers and creating personality profiles from their neuro-molecular scans, there was still too much he didn't know about them to be any more certain.

If they didn't come back, then there was about a fifty-four percent chance that they would also abandon Dr. Haxle and his people here. In that case, Hux would need to decide what to do with them. Perhaps they would agree to a period of indenture in exchange for room and board.

That would hardly be a worthwhile investment, though. The station had little use for organics of their aptitudes, particularly while travel beyond Hub Space was restricted. More likely, Hux would be forced to put them back in their little skiff and jettison them through the wormhole as it closed, leaving them stranded in deep space. It would be a regrettable outcome, but the Trade Hub was not responsible for managing the travel arrangements of its customers.

Still, the odds of reaching a more favorable outcome for all parties improved significantly as long as the Faiacians remained on the station. Keeping them here might not be possible within the bounds of Hux's mandate, though. They'd clearly expressed their intention to depart, and they had yet to violate any Trade Hub policies or incur any debts, so Hux had no grounds to detain them.

Still, there were a few small things that he could do to slow them down without creating too much ill will in the process.

"That selfish moron," muttered Neska. While still standing with Dr. Haxle in the library, Hux was once again accompanying the Faiacian party through the station.

"I wish I were surprised," said Rajak. "But when has Haxle ever put the welfare of the crew ahead of his own ambition?"

Dr. Haxle slipped another chip into the terminal. It held an ancient record of interstellar transits for a densely populated sector of Argivian space. Worthless.

"He'll come around, though," said Ms. Neska. She spoke with forced confidence, presumably for Hux's sake. She was still trying to bluff her way through.

Rajak snorted in derision. "Don't hold your breath."

Neska looked at him askance. They were clearly not in accord on their negotiating strategy.

Their party reached the lift platform, and Hux conducted them to the recreational simulator arcade on deck twenty-one.

The Faiacians were predictably alarmed at the sudden onslaught of sensory stimuli that assailed them in the arcade. The lift platform overlooked a cavernous nightclub from an elevated vantage. The darkened club was crowded with revelers dancing to raucous music, awash in pulsing light from the multi-hued floor lights and the holographic light show playing out above their heads. Swirling ribbons and exploding starbursts of neon light dazzled the eyes of anyone who looked up.

A stage rose out of the middle of the dance floor like an island in a storm-tossed sea. Invisible spotlights circled the stage, lighting up a troupe of musicians and backup dancers engaged in a very spirited performance.

"This isn't the hangar deck!" Mr. Rajak shouted over the music. "Did I really need to specify the hangar deck?"

Hux stepped onto the glowing steps that descended around the base of the lift platform, down into the arcade. "I'm sorry," he said, "I assumed you would want to reunite with Misters Greg and Hrrglrich before you depart."

Ms. Neska and Mr. Rajak exchanged a glance. Apparently, they'd forgotten about the troublesome pair.

In the library, Dr. Haxle slipped another chip into the terminal. It held thousands of hours of music and a plethora of audio-video and holoprojector entertainments. An excellent find! If only more of the chips had held similar contents. Hux fed a selection of music from the chip to the arcade, and the band transitioned to performing a suitable composition. It had a driving beat and a curiously syncopated rhythm that underscored the themes of hedonism and excess, denial and guilt in the Argivian-language lyrics.

The Faiacians didn't seem to notice or care. Curious. The culture of the Argivians truly was lost to them.

Hux escorted Mr. Rajak's party into the crowded dance floor, and the way ahead of them cleared as if by chance, the dancers parting one way or the other without seeming to notice their presence. Even so, Hux led the way cautiously through the crowd, as if the dancers might plow into someone if they weren't careful.

"These are all holograms, right?" Rajak muttered in Neska's ear. She nodded.

"They _must _be," she said, and she reached out to touch the back of a dancing alien as she passed. The alien's gyrations carried her out of Neska's reach at the last moment. Hux ignored their private exchange, aware that it hadn't been meant for his auditory pickups.

Dr. Haxle's next data chip stored the private diary of a retired, middle-class Argivian woman, including hundreds of hours of holo recordings and thousands of digital souvenirs from her daily life. This sort of thing was likely to be valuable to an archaeologist like Dr. Haxle, but not to anyone else.

The Faiacian party reached a round door set into the wall of the arcade, labeled "Private Rec-Sims." It irised open silently at their approach, and Hux ushered the group into a pristine, brightly-lit corridor. When the door shut behind them, not even the throbbing bass of the dance floor passed into the quiet hall. They could have been anywhere on the station. Across the hall was another door, identical to the first except for the holo-projected sign reading "Rec-Sim 1." Hux stopped by the door.

"Just give me a moment to notify Mr. Greg of your presence," said Hux.

Rajak made an impatient face. "Just open the door."

Hux nodded acquiescence. "Very well," he said, and the door irised open, revealing Greg crouched on a colorful mat in a strange contortion, tangled together with another Faiacian and an Ilian, both female, both dressed in revealing skin-tight attire. There were symbols on the mat that each of the participants was struggling to reach with their hands and feet. It was a game designed to test the participants' flexibility and reach, mostly as a pretext for socially tolerated, pseudo-intimate contact.

Neska clapped her palm over her face and shook her head in embarrassment. One of the lackeys in their retinue let out a whistle of mock-praise, and Mr. Greg looked up in surprise, his quills standing on end. Had his playmates not been holograms, the Ilian straddling his neck would have suffered a scrape in a highly delicate place.

"Rajak! We were just, ah…"

Rajak turned to Hux. "Enough of this shek. Turn all these illusions off and show us to the hangar deck already!"

Hux could see that his visitors had reached the end of their patience. He judged it best if he dispensed with any further stalling tactics. "Of course. I understand." The mat vanished, together with the holographic females, and Greg collapsed to the floor. He rose to his feet again, dusting himself off.

"Let's go," said Rajak, and he stalked back out into the corridor. There, he met Hrrglrich lumbering out of a doorway labeled Rec-Sim 2. He was brushing off his shaggy fur intently until he looked down at himself and saw he was entirely clean. He was dumbfounded for just a moment before shaking his head and turning to face Rajak.

Rajak just waved him over and turned to the exit. The others fell in line, and the group reentered the arcade.

The Rec-Sim Arcade was silent as a tomb. The dancers were gone. The performers were gone. The lights were up, revealing the same alabaster walls and ceiling as everywhere else on the station. Rajak just shook his head and kept on walking.

Dr. Haxle's next chip was sealed with an encryption that Hux could not easily strip away. It was several layers deep and mired with traps designed to corrupt the data in the event of tampering.

How tantalizing.

Fortunately, no form of single-party encryption invented by the Argivians over a thousand years ago could have withstood the efforts of the Central Network Array for very long, and this little chip was no exception. He set to work.

Meanwhile, Rajak and his people returned to the flight deck and found their shuttle just as they'd left it. Dr. Haxle fed Hux a few more worthless data chips while the crew of the _Reia Two_ strapped in and prepared for launch. Rajak signaled the station to announce his readiness to depart, and finally, two times ten to the twelfth computations later, the Central Network Array finished its decryption.

Hux pored through the data seven hundred and twenty-nine times to be sure of what he'd found. The CNA recognized the importance of his findings and lifted the data directly from his program, fed the information into thousands of different subroutines to make much more powerful projections and predictions than Hux could, and formulated short- and long-term strategies in the face of countless contingencies. Then it fed its conclusions back into the relevant subroutines to manifest its new intentions. Naturally, one such subroutine was the Hux program.

When the station did not immediately respond to the _Reia Two's_ departure request, Rajak signaled again.

"Are we clear to launch?" His impatience was palpable.

"Standby, _Reia Two," _Hux cut in, overriding the station's automated traffic control A.I.

Rajak's image from his vessel's primitive video pickup looked suspicious. "What's the holdup, Hux? We told you, we're leaving."

"Of course!" said Hux, "Only, I've just had a fantastic idea that I think will make all of us quite happy."

"Are you ready to drop your prices?" said Ms. Neska.

"Actually, I'd like to propose a brand new deal, if you'll just hear me out. Why not come back onto the station and rejoin your comrades? I'd like to introduce you to an associate of mine.

"If this is a waste of time…" Rajak warned.

"Believe me, what I have to say is well worth your while," said Hux.

Rajak looked to Neska, who bit her lip thoughtfully. "Convince us," she said.

"Alright," said Hux, "I'm ready to provide you with all of the supplies on your list," he said. "Dr. Haxle will have all of his data, and I'll even return the chips. I'll provide you with a few minor upgrades for your ship, and the Trade Hub will handle installation and repair."

"No blood or marrow?" said Neska. "No slaves? No selling our DNA or doing whatever you see fit with it?"

"Of course," said Hux.

"Then in return…"

"I just need you to run an errand for me," said Hux.

<strike>-o-o-o-</strike>

Meanwhile, Hux turned his attention to deck nine, maintenance habitat three.

It was early morning in the quiet seaside cabana. Shards of morning sunlight filtered through the fronds of starburst palm trees, sifting with the breeze over the floorboards and the furniture in a kaleidoscope of light and shadow.

Hux glanced around and found her lounging on the sofa in her little sitting area, gazing out over the placid waters of Risa's southern ocean. There was a faraway look in her eye that told Hux she wasn't really paying attention to the scenery. Dangling loosely from her fingertips was a half-forgotten PADD. Hux saw that it displayed information gleaned from the station's scans of the _Hypereia,_ and he grinned.

"Oh good," said Hux, "You've already started reading up."

Lucy's gaze snapped from the beach to her visitor, as if she'd only just taken note of his presence. It wasn't as if he'd surprised her; more that she was simply indifferent to his presence.

She offered a polite smile and said without much hope, "Don't suppose you'd let me meet them, though."

Hux's grin grew wider. "Actually…"


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owen wakes in a hospital bed facing interrogation by authorities on a station under threat of Po Lafimas bombardment.

“I don’t know what it is,” spoke a voice in the dark. “There’s not too much that’s unusual about it, but it’s not in our medical database.”

“It called itself ‘Human,’” said another voice, “From a world called Yelodorf, near Plutis.”

Their voices were low and calm, giving Owen a reassuring sense that he was safe from immediate harm.

“Nothing like this thing evolved anywhere near Plutis,” said the first voice, “I’ll tell you that much. The only really strange thing about it is its lack of cellular repair mechanisms. That, and its chromosomes are very fragile. There are a few races like him in the Crosscurrents, but they rarely leave the protection of their planets’ magnetospheres. He’s slowly being torn apart by the ambient radiation of the cluster, even now. The conditions in the Plutisian starstrand would render him into so much spoiled meat in a beatspann. As it is, the only thing keeping him alive is a dermal implant administering a drug cocktail.”

“Can we get any clues from the implant? A manufacturer, or…”

“I’ve looked it over the best I can with my equipment, but the only markings on the device are in an unknown language. Its casing is made of some sort of ablative argivium alloy. I can’t get a look inside of it without using high-intensity scans that would damage his fragile tissues. But I can tell you, it’s beyond state of the art.”

Owen massaged the spot on his collarbone where his subdermal implant was hidden, reassuring himself that it was still in place. Looking around, he found himself alone in a dark room. Light streamed in through the open door, but a man stood just outside the doorway, blocking most of it. He was the first speaker. The throaty rumble of his voice reminded Owen of a basset hound he’d had as a kid. He was speaking to a man out in the hall, who, from his distinct baritone, was probably the security officer that pulled Owen out of the vent shaft.

There was a thin tube running from Owen’s arm to a bag of clear fluid suspended above him. He was lying in an inclined position on a thin mattress in a narrow bed, bracketed in by alien medical equipment. Wires ran from the machines into bandages wrapped around his torso. He was wearing a thin, yellow gown. His Starfleet uniform was nowhere to be seen.

“Have you found anything that might explain why the Po Lafimas are so worked up?” said the officer.

“You mean besides the fact that he was drenched in their blood?”

“They’re threatening the entire station, Doctor! If it were a simple murder case, they would have pressed for lawful extradition, not immediate and unconditional surrender! They would have provided evidence! Surveillance records, witness reports, something beyond accusing him of being a ‘void demon’ or an ‘affront to the gods’! This isn’t the first time the Po Lafimas have had violent clashes on this station. They’ve never reacted like this before. Why? What can you tell me?”

“Well…” The doctor paused to collect his thoughts. “The number and variety of his wounds is remarkable,” he said, “and the Po Lafimas blood on his body came from at least four separate individuals. It must have been a hell of a fight.”

“Was he their prisoner?” said the officer.

“I mean… medically, there’s not much to go on. If he was restrained, then the restraints didn’t leave much of a mark. There are abrasions on his wrists that might be caused by shackles, but not as severe as I’d expect if he’d been tied up for very long. They could just as likely have been sustained in the fight. The burns on his chest may have been caused by torture, I suppose, and there are some signs of recent malnourishment. It’s a valid theory, but I’d say the evidence is lacking.” 

“Well, it’s the only theory I’ve got that makes any sense,” said the officer. “There’s no record of his arrival on the station, which means he probably came on board with the Po Lafimas.”

“In that case, he was probably…” the doctor trailed off, so the officer finished for him.

“Dinner.”

A long pause stretched between the two men.

“You… I mean, the administration, they wouldn’t…” the doctor trailed off.

“We’ll do what we have to do to safeguard this station,” said the officer. “We can’t risk the wrath of Po.”

“But there are limits!” The doctor expressed his outrage in a hushed shout. He glanced back at Owen as if wary of waking him, then did a double-take.

“He’s awake.”

The officer stepped forward and pushed open the door, but the doctor put up his arm, blocking his entry. “He needs his rest,” he said.

“We’re on a short clock,” said the officer. “He can rest after I’ve gotten answers.”

He and the doctor locked eyes for a moment before the doctor reluctantly lowered his arm and let him through. The officer stepped into the room and tapped a button on the wall, activating the overhead lights. Owen squinted into the glare as the officer took a chair from the other side of the room and set it down next to Owen’s bed. He took a seat and addressed Owen in a business-like manner. “Hello, sir. My name is Harq Beduin. I’m the security director here on Jetsam Station. This is a Pellan jurisdiction, and I’m acting on the authority of the Pellan League. I’ve got some questions I need you to answer.”

Owen gazed at Harq warily, wondering what the best move here would be. He needed time to sort things out before giving too much away. “I’ll do my best to answer you, Mr. Beduin,” he said, “but I’m very tired.”

“I understand,” said Harq. “Let’s start slow. First, what’s your name?”

“Owen Vance,” said Owen.

“And your species?”

“Human,” said Owen.

“I’ve never heard of your kind,” said Harq. “Where are you from?”

Right to the meat of it. Owen couldn’t convincingly feign confusion over such a simple question. He’d already told one lie that hadn’t gone over well. He needed to hew a little closer to the truth.

“Earth,” said Owen. He almost said Cestus III, but that would only make things more complicated.

The officer raised an eyebrow. “Is that your planet?”

Owen nodded.

“Then what is Yelodorf?”

“That’s… one name we call our sun. In our language, it means ‘little yellow star.’”

Harq nodded thoughtfully. “And just where is Yelodorf, exactly?”

“It’s a long way from here,” said Owen.

“You mentioned Plutis, before,” said Harq.

Owen nodded. “Past Plutis.”

Harq furrowed his brow, the long, whisker-like threads of his eyebrows fanning out over his sand-complected forehead. “There’s nothing ‘past’ Plutis.”

Owen stared at him for a moment, thinking fast. “There’s almost nothing past Plutis, you mean. My world is… it’s on the boundary of deep space.”

“Then you’re an extracelestial?” said Harq. He didn’t seem surprised by the idea.

Owen shook his head. “Not quite, I mean…” He’d been trying to avoid that very conclusion. He didn’t know if these people would react the same way the Po had. “My people consider our world to be the last outpost of the Argus Cluster.”

“But you’re beyond the radiation belt,” said Harq. “Beyond the reach of the tachyon winds.”

Owen shook his head again, more fervently. “The radiation is weaker, and our world’s atmosphere shelters us from most of it, but it’s there. And the winds…. We get the winds. Sometimes. The Po Lafimas called them ‘siren’ winds.”

Harq was studying him skeptically. “Ok. So, you get the occasional siren wind. But clearly, you don’t travel them. You aren’t made for it. So, Mr. Owen…” He let the question dangle.

“What am I doing here?” said Owen.

Harq nodded.

He took a deep breath. He really was very tired, and he wasn’t a great storyteller on the best of days. “A Po Lafimas ship came through our system. It… got stranded when the wind died. I… my ship encountered them. We don’t sail, often, but, I mean… we travel our own system. So, we gave them some supplies and showed them some hospitality. And when the wind returned, I uh… I went with them.”

Harq’s skeptical expression hadn’t wavered. “Why in Argivia would you do that?”

Owen shrugged. “I wanted to see the galaxy. I didn’t realize at the time that the Po Lafimas were cannibal thugs that worshipped a big blue eyeball, I just--”

“You’ve seen the Eye of Po?” Harq interrupted, looking surprised.

Owen nodded. “Big floating eyeball. Yeah, we… met.”

“Why?” said Harq. “Why would they bring you to the Eye?”

Owen shrugged again. “They were running late. They hoped the Po would forgive them if they gave him a gift. A funny, furry-faced person from a race they’d never heard of before was the best they could come up with. It… didn’t go over well for them.”

“How are you alive, then?” said Harq.

Owen waved down at his present condition. “By the skin of my teeth.”

Harq looked at him askance. No doubt, the idiom failed to translate, so Owen elaborated.

“I fought back. I may not look it, but I can defend myself.”

Harq nodded. “You know? Almost everything you’ve told me is quillcock spit. But somehow, I can believe that.”

Owen winced. He was too tired to keep up this ruse much longer. “Look… I’m exhausted, and I’m scared. My only crime is wanting to live, but if I say the wrong thing…” 

“If you wanted to live, why did you come into the Argus Cluster?” said Harq. “You don’t need me to tell you that you’re dying here.”

Owen stared dumbly at him for a moment, then looked away. No more excuses, no more lies were coming to him.

“Alright, tell me this, then,” said Harq, “Where does the girl enter into it?”

Owen shook his head. “What girl?”

“Before you passed out,” said Harq. “You said it started with a girl.”

Owen thought back, but he couldn’t recall saying that. He shook his head. “I must have been delirious,” he said.

Harq sighed and leaned forward. He spoke in a low, urgent voice. “Mr. Owen, look at me. I have five thousand servants of a vengeful scion threatening to blow this station straight into Neptis’ fathomless Well. There are eight thousand souls on board, you understand? The only reason we haven’t handed you over already is because I and a few like-minded fellows reluctantly objected. Do you hear me?”

Owen nodded, and he went on. “We are gods-fearing people, here. Our tribe is pledged to Pallathien. Do you know who that is?”

Owen gave him a blank look.

Harq smirked, and for a fleeting moment, there was a knowing twinkle in his eye. Owen had the distinct impression that he’d just given himself away, but Harq pushed on, answering his own question. “Scion of Jovis, avowed champion of just pursuits. And I know that she would not approve, if we handed over an innocent man to the Children of Po. So you see, we’re in an incredibly tenuous position here, caught between the demands of two scions of unimaginable power.”

Owen briefly considered divulging that he’d already killed one of those scions, but he quickly thought better of it.

“On the other hand,” Harq went on, “If you continue acting so obviously guilty, I think Pallathien may just forgive me. Maybe there’s really something behind the Lafimas’ claims that you’re a ‘walking sacrilege’ and a ‘demon from the void that must be snuffed out.’”

Owen swallowed. He was having a harder time imagining an outcome where he escaped this station alive. “So just because my race is from beyond the prevailing winds of the cluster, that makes us demons?”

Harq shook his head and pointed at the doctor. “He tells me there’s no meaningful difference between you and every other sentient race roaming this cluster, and Pallathien teaches that all reasoning people have a right to justice.”

Owen nodded, immensely relieved. He came to a decision. “Good. Listen… ok, so I haven’t been completely forthcoming. My people… we’re travelers.”

“From the Void?” Harq pressed.

Owen met his eyes for a moment, terrified he’d made a mistake. There was no walking it back now, though. He nodded. “We’ve travelled a very long way. And along the way… we’ve lost people. Many died, but one… she didn’t die. She was taken.”

Harq nodded for Owen continue. He sat back and crossed his long legs, listening intently. “There are beings out there in the galaxy a lot like your scions, capable of incredible things. One of them took my… colleague, into his own hidden realm through a kind of doorway… do you know what a wormhole is?”

Harq shook his head.

“A hole in space that connects far distant points.” 

Harq’s eyebrow arched, the wiry hairs spreading like a fan over his temple. 

Owen wondered if he’d already lost him, but he pushed on, desperately willing the security officer to hear him, to believe him, and to sympathize with his plight. “The wormhole to this being’s realm… it could open anywhere in the galaxy. So after we lost her, we thought we’d never see her again. Still, we kept a lookout, hoping to find that doorway again.

“Finally, we spotted it, but it was in the Argus Cluster. Which, to us, you understand, is an impossible terrain. Our technology doesn’t work here like it should.” Owen thought of his phaser’s spectacular failure and wondered if the radiation of the cluster was to blame for that, as well. “And on top of that, the radiation is lethal.”

“But you came here anyway,” said Harq.

“Yes, I did,” said Owen. “Just me. See, we really did encounter a Po Lafimas ship, stranded outside of the cluster. We carried them back to the boundary of your realm, and when we released them… I snuck on board.”

“To rescue your… ‘colleague.’” 

“And very dear friend, yes,” said Owen.

It seemed to Owen that skepticism mixed with pity on Harq’s face.

“How far away is this friend of yours now?”

Owen shook his head. “I don’t even know if the wormhole is still open. She may be unreachable. But if it stays open, or if she found a way to escape her captor and come through it…”

“Sounds like a longshot,” said Harq.

Owen shrugged. “I have to try.”

“How far?”

“A hundred light-years.”

“It would take you over a year to make that voyage, even if you managed to find direct passage,” said Harq. “You won’t survive.”

Owen didn’t have a reply. The finality of Harq’s pronouncement cut like a knife. It wasn’t a threat or a fear, it was a matter of fact. Owen considered the toll of just one week spent in this unforgiving space, and his heart sagged.

To Owen’s immense surprise, Harq put a comforting hand on Owen’s shoulder. It had been so long since anyone had offered him even such a simple gesture of understanding, and he felt it more deeply than he was prepared for. He took a ragged breath and steeled his nerves. He couldn’t look weak in front of these aliens. Thankfully, the moment only lasted an instant before Harq returned to his questioning.

“You stowed away on their ship,” said Harq. “By interstellar consensus, they would have been within their rights to flush you out the airlock.” 

Owen shook his head. “Well, they didn’t. They made me a part of the crew. They gave me the jobs no one else wanted.”

“And how long did you travel with them? What other places did you visit?”

“There weren’t any other stops,” said Owen. “It’s been seven and a half turns since we entered the cluster. They brought me straight here, they introduced me to their god, and…”

“Po ordered you killed,” said Harq. His tone brooked no contradiction. 

Owen nodded. “We had a difference of opinion on that point.”

Harq smirked. “Well… if you survived when Po pronounced your death, it could only have been the will of Jovis.”

Owen offered a tight-lipped smile in response. He had no such reassurances, but if it meant Harq’s people would help him, he’d go along with it.

“But I have to know…” said Harq, and he seemed to weigh his words before pressing on, “Clearly, your escape was violent. But even for a violent escape, the Po Lafimas response has been extreme. There must be more to it than that.”

Owen contemplated coming up with an elaborate story, but he knew he couldn’t. Even the truth would be too exhausting to explain at the moment. His mind felt full of cobwebs. 

“I don’t know what to say,” said Owen. “I killed some people. They didn’t give me much choice.”

“Who, though?” said Harq. “Who did you kill?”

Owen stared at him helplessly, dreading the idea of offering even a partially honest response. “A couple ships’ captains,” he said. “A few lieutenants. A couple guards. Well, one guard.” 

Harq’s eyebrows shot up, his whiskers fanning over his forehead. “That’ll do it, I suppose.” With that, he braced his hands on his knees and levered himself up to his feet. He headed for the door, and as he passed the doctor he said, “Do what you can for him, Dr. Wenn. I’d hate it if he died before the Po Lafimas got the chance to blow us all up.”

Dr. Wenn didn’t seem to find his gallows humor funny. He sucked in a breath and looked Owen over with fearful black eyes. The aged doctor had long, deep jowls, and his hair and eyebrow-whiskers were a bright silver that contrasted sharply with his dusky, orange-tinged skin. 

After Harq left, the doctor approached Owen’s bed and dropped into the chair Harq had vacated, staring at Owen without a word. From his contemplative expression, it didn’t seem like he was planning on saying anything any time soon, so Owen broke the silence.

“Thank you for patching me up, Doc,” he said.

Dr. Wenn shrugged and shook his head slightly. “It’s my job.”

Owen nodded. “Still. I owe you.”

Dr. Wenn frowned. “Something tells me you won’t be footing the bill.”

Owen fell silent and turned his gaze to the ceiling. He decided he might as well try to get a little more sleep before whatever came next. He needed his strength back ASAP.

“What drugs are you using?” said Dr. Wenn.

Owen didn’t turn his head. He debated keeping his mouth shut, but he decided it wouldn’t make any difference. “Arithrazine and hyronalin,” he said. Then he looked at the doctor. “Arithrazine isn’t strong enough to counteract prolonged exposure, but hyronalin is toxic in its own right, so I switch back and forth.”

“It’s not enough, though,” said Dr. Wenn.

Owen sighed. “No, it’s not. So, what’s your best guess, Doc? How long have I got?”

Dr. Wenn considered for a moment. “I’d say a quarter turn at best.”

Owen’s brow furrowed. A quarter turn equated to a little over six hours. It took him a moment to realize the doctor was referring to the present situation with the Po Lafimas. “And if I survive Po’s wrath?”

Dr. Wenn shook his head. “You might escape the station with our help, but unless you escape the Argus Cluster or the radiation kills you first…” 

“So he holds a grudge, I guess.”

“That he does,” said Dr. Wenn.

Owen considered his next words carefully. “What if something happened to Po?”

“Meaning what?”

Owen shrugged. “Say… what if the ship that that eyeball is riding in explodes.”

Dr. Wenn shrugged. “If the Eye of Po is destroyed, that might buy you some time. Po’s servants don’t tend to organize well without his direct oversight.”

Owen tried not to let his relief show, but Dr. Wenn clearly saw some reaction. “But I wouldn’t recommend trying it.”

Owen put his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “I never said--”

“If someone ever harmed Neptis’ scion, her wrath would know no bounds.”

Owen normally shrugged off the natives’ superstitious comments, but something about the doctor’s matter-of-fact tone made him think twice. 

“Neptis,” he repeated.

Dr. Wenn nodded.

“The black hole,” said Owen.

“Goddess of the Deep, Breath of the Stars, Bane of Old Argivia.”

“You mean, like… literally?”

Dr. Wenn broke out in laughter. “Did you think the Argus Cluster was ruled by metaphors, void dweller?”

Owen pinched his lips together. “I mean…”

“Then you thought the tachyon winds were what, poems? You thought the scions were figures of speech?”

Owen shook his head. “The Eye of Po was very literal. But… it didn’t strike me as something supernatural.”

“Of course not,” said Dr. Wenn. “The gods aren’t supernatural, Mr. Owen. They are nature. They are gravity and radiation and tachyon currents and everything else that flows from the Wells. They rule the Argus Cluster like a star rules a planet.”

Owen furrowed his brow in confusion. “Do the stars here go around having scions and claiming revenge, too?”

The doctor just shook his head. “The stars are like… amoebas, next to the gods. They are finite, whereas the Wells contain infinities. Do you not have gods out there in the deep?”

Owen shrugged. “Plenty of beings like to self-identify as gods, but…” He tried to stifle a big yawn, but it just kept coming, so he rode it out before continuing, “...to us, they’re all just aliens of one kind or another. I mean, we’ve got some black holes too, but they don’t have nearly so much… personality.”

“Maybe you just haven’t pissed them off enough to coax it out of them.” 

Owen puzzled over his words, but intrusive images muddied his thoughts. A Federation starship firing phasers into a singularity. A yawning black crater under a floating blue orb, deep fissures multiplying and spreading across its underside.

Owen pried his eyes open again and willed himself to stay awake. “Well, what did you do to piss off yours?”

Dr. Wenn considered Owen for a moment and shook his head. “You need your rest. I’ve patched your wounds, but you’ve lost a lot of blood, and I don’t have a compatible supply on hand. Best just get some sleep and let your nutrient drip do what it can. You’ll need whatever strength you can manage, sooner than you’d like.”

Owen nodded. “Sounds like a good idea.” He shut his eyes and sleep settled in so quickly, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the doctor spoke again.

“If you make it off the station,” said Dr. Wenn, and Owen dragged his eyes back open. The doctor was standing in the doorway facing out, his hand hovering over the button that switched the lights. He spoke to Owen without looking all the way back at him. “It would be worth your time to seek out an herb called rhodextera. It’s not common, and it’s not cheap. But there are a few travelers that evolved in well-sheltered, low-rad environments who use it to survive in space. Your best bet at finding some…” the doctor shrugged. “The only place I can think of that you might feasibly reach in time is Grandon. Their medical facilities are top-notch. Far from free, mind you.”

Owen waited, but that was evidently the end of the doctor’s advice. He pressed the button, the lights went out, and he walked away.

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Owen. “I’ll remember that.”

Rhodextera, he recited to himself. Grandon. He had thought he’d fall straight to sleep, but the doctor had just given him a lot more to think about, and… 

Owen was snoring before he knew what hit him.

-o--o--o-

Someone was hitting him.

Owen opened his eyes. It was still dark in his room. He looked down and saw a yellow-gold hand jabbing him in the ribs, right near his knife wound. He followed the yellow hand back to a yellow-gold woman, crouched down to eye-level at his bedside, studying him with fractal pupils set into wide blue eyes without any whites. She stopped poking him only after she saw that he was awake. Owen opened his mouth to speak, and she clapped her hand over his mouth and raised her finger to her lips. Her eyes darted toward the door and back. Owen followed her gaze and, through the cracked door, he saw someone slumped against the wall outside.

She gestured for him to get up, and Owen reached for the tubes running into his arm, only to find that they’d already been removed. The wires running to the bandages on his chest had been cut as well. He looked to the monitoring equipment around him and found the screens and indicators had all been turned off.

Owen rolled his legs out of the bed and tried to raise himself up to a sitting position, only to stop as a wave of dizziness washed over him. The strange woman gave him just a moment to get his bearings before losing her patience, grabbing him by the shoulders, and propping him upright. She held him that way until she was satisfied that he had his balance.

Her hands were strangely warm. She exuded a scent like orange rind and wood smoke, and her breath was a little gingery. She could use a mint.

She stepped back and looked him up and down, evaluating him. Owen evaluated her in return, still sitting perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for his legs to find their strength.

He realized he’d seen her before, or at least, a woman of her species, loitering outside of a bar in the middle of the Po Lafimas horde. She had dark red hair with a bit of a metallic sheen worn loosely down to her shoulders, covering her ears--assuming her ears were even in the usual place. She was wearing a leatherish green jacket, loose-fitting slate-gray pants, a belt with several pockets, and a holster with a long-barreled pistol or a short-barreled rifle strapped to her left hip. She was taller than Owen by a good three centimeters and solidly built without seeming the least bit masculine. In fact, he thought she was quite pretty, in spite of her utilitarian clothing and lack of conspicuous adornments.

That may have been the blood loss talking, though. Owen’s mind was still running at about five percent capacity. 

Her impatience was evident in the furrow of her brow. Owen braced himself and pushed himself to his feet. His legs were like jelly, but he managed to keep his balance. He looked down at himself in his yellow gown, wishing he knew where his uniform had gone.

The strange woman grabbed him by the wrist and tugged him toward the door, and he immediately stumbled over his own feet. She caught him, thankfully, or he would have face-planted. Instead, he found his face buried in the leathery texture of her jacket, his hands clutching her shoulders as he struggled to get his feet back under him while she propped him up. Owen was impressed that she could bear his weight while he clumsily found his footing.

“Shek! This isn’t going to work,” she muttered under her breath.

He got his balance back, but she didn’t let him go. In fact, he was perplexed to find she was keeping him pinned to her chest in an awkward embrace. Then he felt a sudden sting in his neck. He swatted at whatever had stung him, and his hand closed over hers, clutching something shaped like a pen, or…

Owen pushed himself free while keeping his grip on her hand. He swayed on his feet for a moment before he could focus his eyes on what she was holding.

It was a syringe.

“What did you give me?” he demanded.

She cast a furtive glance at the door behind her and jerked her hand free from his.

“Something to help you,” she whispered. “Come on!”

She went to the door and peered cautiously through the gap.

Owen watched her warily. His heart started pounding, and with it, the cobwebs in his mind were clearing. It dawned on him that following this strange woman who had just dragged him out of his sickbed might not be the best idea.

Satisfied that the hall was clear, she glanced back at Owen and waved him forward. When he didn’t move, she gave him a second, inquiring look.

Owen crossed his arms over his chest. “Who are you?” He spoke in a low voice, but evidently not low enough for her liking. 

She gestured her hand like a shut mouth, then marched up to him, leaned forward, and whispered urgently into his ear. “I’m your only shot at getting off this station alive. Any moment now, either Director Harq or an unruly mob is going to show up at your door, and whichever one it is, they will drag you all the way to the hangar where the Po Lafimas are waiting. They will do this because if they don’t, then within a beatspann, the last Po Lafimas ship will depart the station, and then they will blow this place to smithereens!”

A beatspann. That was something like forty minutes. “How do I know that you’re not here to turn me over yourself?” Owen whispered back.

She stepped back and gave him a reproachful look before leaning in again and whispering, “Even if I were… would you rather face your death with honor, or be the cause of death for eight thousand others?”

Owen’s pounding heart caught in his throat. Somehow, he hadn’t considered the predicament in quite those terms before. He’d been so focused on his mission, on his survival, that it hadn’t occurred to him that his choices could affect the survival of so many other people. “If you sneak me off the station, won’t they kill everyone anyways?”

“Just let me worry about--”

A hydraulic hiss from down the hall interrupted their conversation. The stranger’s hand went to her hip, and her gun was in her hand in a flash. Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside, and she waved at Owen to step back. He glanced around, briefly considering his few, unappealing alternatives, before remaining where he was and taking a defensive stance. She gave him a sidelong glance and nodded approval. It occurred to him that he was feeling much, much better since that shot she’d given him.

When no one immediately entered the room, she went to the door and swung it open, keeping her weapon trained. Outside, Dr. Wenn was bent over the slumped body of a security guard, checking the pulse in his neck. He looked up into the barrel of the woman’s gun, and he froze. His gaze flickered over to Owen and back, and he put his hands up and rose to his feet slowly, heaving a resigned sigh.

Without taking her eyes off of the doctor, she waved Owen forward. 

Owen strode out of the room into the corridor and looked around. It was a short hall with just five other hinged doors like the one to Owen’s room, plus the hydraulic sliding door at the entrance.

Behind him, Owen heard a sharp “zap” and looked back to find the alien woman applying some kind of stunning device to Dr. Wenn’s neck while clamping a hand over his mouth. He was unconscious almost instantly, and she lowered him gently to the floor.

Owen stared wide-eyed at her, feeling like he ought to step in to protect the doctor, but knowing that he couldn’t. She noticed his reaction and tilted her chin up, rejecting the accusation in his glare. She mouthed words that he couldn’t interpret (his UT could translate her words, but not the silent movement of her lips), then she stooped and hooked her hands under the doctor’s shoulders and looked at Owen expectantly. Reluctantly, he moved to pick up the doctor’s legs, and they carried him into the hospital room and laid him on the bed. They came back out and picked up the unconscious guard likewise, and she led them through another open door, into a supply closet. They set the guard down on a pallet loaded with packages of medical gowns like the one Owen was wearing. At least it was soft. Owen was surprised that his rescuer went so far as to prop up a package under the guard’s head as an impromptu pillow.

With the guard situated, Owen went back to the doorway into the corridor.

“Psst!” She hissed to get his attention, and then she pointed the other way, at an open vent in the back wall. Owen’s racing heart skipped a beat. Even with whatever drugs she’d given him, he didn’t think he had the energy for another trip through the station’s claustrophobic ventilation system.

He took a deep, fortifying breath and quietly shut the door to the corridor, then crossed the room to join her by the vent.

He was relieved to find a rope hanging in the vent shaft. It must have been staked on a higher deck, so she probably used it to repel into the medical facility in the first place.

His rescuer dug through a rucksack stashed by the vent and pulled out a bundle of clothing. She tossed it to Owen, and he dressed in a hurry, first pulling on the gray-green trousers under his gown, then tearing away the thin fabric of the gown. He considered the bandages wrapped around his torso, wondering how bad the damage was beneath them. The pain was still dulled by whatever analgesics Dr. Wenn had used, but he still felt the burns across his chest and the sharp pain in his side. At least his countless bruises and smaller cuts weren’t bothering him so much.

Owen noticed his rescuer studying him attentively. He met her eye, and her neutral expression betrayed nothing. Owen slipped on the loose-fitting tunic. The other item in the bundle was just a long strip of beige fabric. He held it up inquiring, and she pantomimed wrapping it around her head. Owen got the picture.

Apparently, though, he was doing it wrong. She stopped him and took the fabric away, then started putting it on him herself, first drooping it over his head by the middle, then wrapping it around on both sides, working her way down, looping the fabric under his chin, then wrapping it loosely around his neck like a scarf. She nodded in satisfaction, so Owen told himself it must not look as ridiculous as it felt.

She handed him a pair of boots, which he recognized immediately. He gave her a questioning look, and she nodded and gestured to his feet. Owen pulled on his own uniform boots, hoping that the fact she had these meant she had the rest of the uniform stashed away somewhere, as well.

Lastly, she gave him a harness. It resembled the climbing harnesses he’d known all his life, so he was able to put it on in short order, but the hook that would lash it to the rope looked nothing like the carabiners he knew. He fumbled with it for a moment before she took matters into her own hands again, quickly hooking his harness to the rope, then going over the rest of his harness to make sure he’d done the rest properly as well. When she was satisfied, she gestured into the vent shaft.

Owen pointed up with a questioning quirk of his eyebrow. She shook her head and pointed down, so Owen dropped himself into the vent shaft and lowered himself expertly downward, walking his feet down the wall and passing the rope hand over hand.

She followed with her rucksack slung over her shoulder, pausing to pull the vent closed behind them, and they descended in silence.

Owen had a lot of questions, and more were springing to mind by the minute, but he was keenly aware that there could be people on the other side of the vents on every deck they passed, so he kept his questions to himself. As they descended toward the outer rim of the station, though, Owen could feel the gravity increasing with every foot of rope, wearing on his anemic muscles. 

His heart was racing much more than it had on any number of dangerous missions, so he was sure it must have been a side effect of whatever drug she’d given him. It made him feel like a green recruit again, like the nineteen-year-old crewman fresh out of Starfleet security boot camp, riding the short-range hopper into his first combat engagement with the Tzenkethi, all nerves and doubts. It was an experience he hadn’t missed.

The bottom of the shaft became apparent when they were four decks above it. At the next vent Owen passed, the woman gave a quick, sharp whistle to catch his attention. Owen glanced up and she nodded. Owen nodded back, then grabbed the vent grate in front of him and gave it an experimental nudge. It moved easily in its frame, so Owen braced his boots against the vent shaft and grabbed the grate with both hands, carefully sliding it out of its frame. 

Outside was another anonymous corridor. Owen climbed through the vent on his stomach, pulling his body with his elbows until his knees cleared the opening, then he rose to his feet and looked around. It was a short corridor joining two others. No one was in sight.

The woman who’d led him here swung her feet through the vent behind Owen, planted them on the deck, and ducked her upper body into the corridor in an impressive display of balance, flexibility, and athleticism. She stood and brushed herself off, then noticed Owen’s appraising gaze.

She shrugged, then stooped to pick up the vent grate and fit it back into the opening.

She rose to her feet, wiped her hands on her trousers, looked around for a moment, and said, “Well, I guess that went about as smooth as I could have hoped.” She turned and strolled away down the corridor. Owen watched after her for a moment, but she didn’t look back.

He jogged to catch up. “Who are you?” he said.

“Call me Miraven,” she said. “Mira for short.”

They strolled out into the wider corridor and turned right. Miraven walked as if she were having an ordinary day. Owen looked around at the rooms they passed off the corridor. Most of them were occupied with people working at computer terminals, sitting at desks. It was an office.

Owen noticed more than one person’s eyes gravitating in his direction. A couple male Pellans having a conversation in an open doorway fell silent as he passed.

Owen tried to imitate Miraven’s casual demeanor, to walk like he didn’t have a care in the world, but it was exceedingly difficult while his heart was racing like this. Cold sweat was beading up on his forehead, and his palms felt greasy.

“So, I told you my name,” Miraven prompted.

“I’m Owen. Owen Vance,” said Owen.

“Ooh, do you offer your full name to everyone you meet? Or am I special?”

Owen tilted his head in confusion. “Is that rude, here?”

Miraven shrugged. “A little too… formal? And over-sharing, too. In the Argus Cluster, your full name is for legal documents and family functions. Outside of those, most folks go by either just their family name or just their given name. Or their clan name sometimes, depending on the context.”

“Gotcha,” said Owen.

“So, which do you prefer?”

Owen considered for just a moment. “Vance. You can just call me Vance.”

She eyed him with a quirked eyebrow for a moment and flashed a smirk. “Alright, Vance. Nice to meet you.”

Owen reflexively reached for a handshake. Miraven gave his hand half a glance, then swiped her palm on his.

Close enough, he mused.

“So what’s the plan, Mira?”

“We’re getting off the station, of course,” said Miraven.

“Do you have a ship?” said Owen.

She nodded, but her attention was elsewhere. They’d reached a hydraulic door with arrows painted on it pointing up and down. Owen assumed it was a lift. They stopped, and Miraven gazed at the doors patiently.

“Is there a voice command or anything?”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “What a world you must come from,” she mused, and she resumed patiently watching the doors.

“How long will it take?” said Owen, and then the hydraulic doors hissed open. A couple Pellans and an alien Owen hadn’t seen before exited, and he and Miraven entered, joined at the last moment by another strange alien.

Standing in close quarters with this alien made Owen feel conspicuous as hell. He wondered how effective a flimsy headscarf would be at disguising him when most of his face was still visible, but he noticed that the alien’s gaze lingered exclusively on Miraven.

Owen assumed he was checking her out, until the lift doors opened again. As they exited, the alien turned down the hall to the left, muttering, “Mongrels are everywhere, anymore.”

Owen stopped in his tracks, looking after the alien in confusion. Mongrel? Who, her?

“Come on,” said Miraven, and Owen saw she was headed to the right, so he turned to follow.

There were only a few doors branching off this corridor, and those were unmarked, clearly not for public access. Foot traffic was light, and the quiet hung heavy in the air.

At length, the corridor joined another, busier corridor, and they found themselves at an open hydraulic doorway into a massive docking terminal. The terminal was mostly empty, but there was a line of distressed-looking aliens, most of them not Pellans, waiting their turn to speak with a security officer at a kiosk.

Large, round windows set high in the walls of the terminal looked out on rockets parked on the outer surface of the station, joining to the terminal by umbilical docking ports.

Owen wondered what Miraven could possibly be thinking, trying to exit the station this way. There were over a dozen security officers patrolling the mostly-empty terminal. To judge by the way the person at the front of the line was arguing with the one manning the kiosk, people were not being allowed on their ships.

Miraven went to the back of the line. Owen stepped up beside her and leaned in close. “We’ll be in this line for over a beatspann,” he whispered. He hadn’t forgotten her claim that the Po Lafimas would destroy the station in less time than that.

“Trust me,” she whispered back, and she went on waiting. One security officer strolled down the length of the line, his eyes searching the passengers one by one. Owen fought the urge to pull his headscarf over his face. If word had gotten out about his escape, he was sure to be recognized.

The guard’s eyes slipped right over Owen and settled on Miraven, though, and he squinted at her with a deeper suspicion. She bore his scrutiny with a carefully neutral expression, and after a moment, he moved on.

Then the lights went out. 

The people gathered in the line let out gasps and cries of alarm. A moment later, the lights flickered back on with a dim, actinic yellow-green hue. Emergency lighting. Then a loud alarm began blaring.

“Emergency decompression in boarding station Ilvum,” announced a calm, automated voice over loudspeakers. “Please proceed calmly to the nearest pressure-locked doorway.”

Pandemonium broke out in the terminal, and Owen despaired. They were too late, the Po Lafimas had started their attack. Everyone around him seemed to reach the same conclusion. The people in the line, the few people loitering in the seating area, and most of the guards mobbed towards the main entrance of the hangar, away from the skin of the space station.

Miraven took Owen’s wrist and lead him against the flow of panicked passengers and towards the umbilical ports where the rockets were docked. He gave her a startled look, and she answered with a conspiratory wink, and only then did he understand that this was all just a diversion.

They cleared the mob and made their way through rows of chairs in the waiting area.

“Halt!” a guard called from halfway across the terminal. He was one of the few trying to maintain order while most of his colleagues competed with the civilians to get through the door. 

Miraven didn’t stop, but she did slow her pace a bit, glancing from the guard to the crowd at the door and around at two other guards who had not yet abandoned their posts.

“Come this way!” the first guard commanded. His hand was on the holster of his gun. Miraven broke into a run, still dragging Owen along by his wrist.

“I said halt!” the guard shouted, and he drew his gun. Miraven drew her gun as well.

“Don’t kill them!” Owen blurted. Miraven looked back in surprise, and she surprised Owen in turn by flashing a dazzling smile.

Then a loud report rang out, and Miraven dove for cover between the rows of chairs, and Owen went with her. She took her weapon in both hands and swung it up over the seats, firing three shots in rapid succession. Owen noticed she was aiming too high to hit much of anything.

She took Owen’s hand and they ran, crouched down between the seats. When they reached the end of the row, Miraven didn’t stop. She led Owen right out into the open, and his racing heart just about exploded. They were now sprinting down the aisle towards the nearest umbilical, out in the open. Miraven released Owen’s hand and fired a few more shots behind her as they ran, and they shot back. Owen heard the all-too-familiar thump of a supersonic projectile impacting something soft, and Miraven stumbled. Owen’s heart was seized with dread, but she recovered her balance without missing more than a step. She didn’t even slow her breakneck pace. Owen wondered if he’d imagined it, or if she was wearing some very effective body armor.

As they closed in on the umbilical, Miraven waved her hand frantically over her head, and the round port dilated open in front of them. Miraven ducked and leaped through the opening before it opened more than halfway, landing gracefully on her feet, and Owen dove head-first after her, landing on his shoulder and rolling smoothly back to his feet. The door constricted shut again behind them, sealing them off from the station. He and Miraven ran down the short umbilical and up the steel steps into the entrance of her getaway rocket.

The docking chamber of the rocket was a small, round room. The rocket’s steps retracted behind them, and then the outer doors slid closed with a hiss. Above them, the low ceiling opened diagonally from a split down the middle, and the floor rose beneath them, lifting them up out of the chamber, and into another circular room not much larger than the last. Owen suspected this rocket was going to make the Po Lafimas’ claustrophobic ship look like a luxury liner.

His heart was beating so quickly, he legitimately feared going into cardiac arrest. He was drenched in sweat. The run had been frantic, but short. In no way did it justify this.

Miraven looked him up and down and pursed her lips.

“What was that drug?” he said. “I think I’m having a reaction.”

“Amphetamines will do that, sorry.”

“Amph--excuse me?” Owen sputtered.

“You were dead on your feet, Vance! Come on.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him across the room to a ladder, and they ascended to the next deck.

There, Owen found two other people, aliens he didn’t recognize, in very elaborate-looking chairs. They had cushions that cradled every nook and cranny of the body, head to toe, so the users sat flush. Even their arms sat in saddles, their wrists stabilized by a cushioned drop bar, and keypads laid out under their fingers so they wouldn’t need to move more than a centimeter to access any command. Over the seats loomed wide, curved screens with some limited depth-of-field effects.

One of the aliens sitting in these chairs spun her seat around with the push of a button, drawing attention to the complicated maneuvering mechanisms undergirding the furniture.

She looked to Miraven. “You took a hit. You alright?”

Miraven was massaging her lower back. “Just a little flak in the flak jacket, nothing to worry about, Loden.”

Loden still looked concerned, but she nodded. The other alien spun around and looked Owen up and down. “So this is the one?”

“Aye, he’s the one. Brence and Loden, this is Vance. Vance, this is Brence and Loden.”

Brence just shook his head and spun his seat back around to face his screen.

Miraven was sizing Owen up thoughtfully.

“What?” said Owen.

She tossed her rucksack at his feet. “Get changed.”

He stooped and found his Starfleet uniform crumpled up inside of the bag. It was still filthy with alien blood. He looked up and met Miraven’s eye. “Thank you for bringing this. If it’s all the same, though, I’d like to clean it before I put it on again.”

“It’s not all the same,” she said. “These clothes are yours, and those clothes you’re wearing are mine. So get changed, quick.”

Owen gave her a suspicious look. “Why?”

Miraven sighed. “Just… Trust me. I don’t have time to walk you through everything. This only works if you trust me.”

She didn’t stick around to argue. She turned around and went to one of the vacant chairs and started getting situated. She cast half a glance at him and said, “When you’re dressed, sit here to my left. And please, hurry!”

Owen heaved a shaky sigh. He was extremely suspicious, but then again, he was hopped up on amphetamines. It was hard to tell the voice of reason from the voice of panic at the moment. He decided he’d better just trust her. She’d gotten him this far. So he stripped down in a hurry, too preoccupied to worry over-much about the three aliens in the room peeping on him as he changed, and he slipped back into the grungy uniform. It had been slashed, torn, burned, soaked in blood, and worn for a week straight in a stinking alien ship without being washed once, but he was happy to have it back.

As soon as he had his boots back on, he bounded over to the chair next to Miraven’s and climbed in. 

It was a bit too tall for him. The cushions didn’t cradle him at all, and they hardly did anything to pad his backside against the hard seat underneath. His head sat awkwardly on the oddly sloped headrest. If this thing was meant for enduring high-g burns as Owen suspected, it seemed woefully insufficient.

Then the chair came alive underneath him. The leg rests raised and contracted slightly, better bracing Owen’s legs, the headrest tilted forward a bit, and all of the padding inflated simultaneously, perfectly cushioning and cradling Owen’s whole body. A complicated harness swung up from one side and closed over his torso, and padded drop bars closed over his wrists, thighs, and ankles. He tested the wrist restraints and found them loose. It was easy to slip his hand in and out of the restraint, at least for now.

“This is probably the riskiest part,” said Miraven.

Owen turned his head toward her as much as the vice-like grip of his headrest would allow. “More than a running firefight with station security?” he asked.

She nodded. “Given your physical condition, you really shouldn’t be exposed to the level of thrust we’ll be pulling.”

“How much?” he asked. She just gave him a pitying look. A respirator mask on a long hose fell from above Owen’s chair and dangled over him.

“Put it on,” said Miraven, and Owen hurried to comply.

Before clamping the mask over his mouth and nose, though, Owen said, “Thank you for helping me, Miraven. But why are you doing it?”

She sighed and tapped a key on her armrest, and her image appeared on the screen over Owen’s head. He stopped craning his neck and focused on the transmitted image.

“Not for your sake, Vance. And save your gratitude.” Her voice came out of the cushions in his headrest, and he realized they had built-in speakers.

“Docking clamps are disengaged, and the station’s port-ventral targeting radar is offline, but it won’t be for long,” said Brence.

“Loden, call the Po Lafimas ship, Toget’s Wind,” said Miraven.

The hairs on Owen’s neck bristled. The long snout of a Po Lafimas appeared on Owen’s screen, Miraven’s face still displayed in an inset window.

The Po Lafimas narrowed its bulbous eye at Miraven. “You! What do you want?”

A moment later, computer-generated speech in a language Owen’s UT didn’t recognize translated the Lafimasi language for Miraven.

“Not what I want, Po Flodden, what I’ve got!”

“Engines are go,” said Brence. “Course laid in.”

Miraven flipped a switch, and the inset image in Owen’s screen flipped from her face to his own. Back in his own uniform, there was no way Owen wouldn’t be recognized. Owen stared at his screen in consternation. She was handing him over? After all that?

“The demon!” roared Po Flodden.

“That’s right,” said Miraven. “I’ve stolen your prize. You’re not dealing with the Pellans anymore, you’re dealing with me!”

“What do you want, mongrel? Because I’ll tell you what you’ll get!” Po Flodden shouted.

Miraven didn’t wait for her translation before replying, “I’ll be in touch!” She shut the comm line and fastened her own respirator mask. Owen rushed to follow her example as Brence announced, “Depressurizing flight deck,” and a chilly gale rushed over him.

“Pressurizing breathers,” he announced, and Owen felt air forced into his lungs through the mask. It tasted metallic.

Miraven’s masked face appeared on Owen’s screen. “Quit looking at me like that, Vance,” she said through her mask.

Owen laughed. “How should I look at you? You only just told the Po Lafimas exactly where to find me!”

“All part of the plan,” she said.

“How is this the plan?”

As they were talking, a bright blue glyph appeared in the corner of Owen’s screen, along with a simple graphic of a rocket firing thrusters. It was accompanied by three tick marks. Then one of the ticks disappeared.

“You just have to trust me.”

Owen studied her, looking for some sign of reassurance. He noticed that under the hard glare of her screen, her fractal pupils had constricted, closing off all the fine branches that radiated throughout her eyes, leaving just a black slit running down the center of her monochromatic blue eyes, and for an instant, Owen was back in that room with the Po Lafimas, looking up into the eye of their infernal master.

Dread surged through him, filling Owen’s veins with ice. A second tick mark vanished from his display, leaving one. He wrenched his hands against his wrist restraints and found they’d gone tight. He writhed against his chair, but it held him like a vice.

“Hold still!” said Miraven. “The kind of thrust we’re about to pull, you don’t want to be caught out of position.”

The last tick mark vanished, and the whole rocket began to shake as a deep roar filled the cockpit.

Owen went still. “Who are you, really?”

“We’ll talk later. Don’t worry, Vance. You’ll be safe…”

A weight fell on Owen like a hundred-fifty kilo blanket, and it kept getting heavier.

“...If you can just survive the next eight spanns.”

The weight grew and grew until Owen’s bones cried out for mercy. He felt wetness soaking through his bandages and knew his wounds had reopened. His vision was going dark, starting at the edges and closing in until all Owen saw were those impenetrable blue eyes gazing down on him, scrutinizing. The thrust tugged at the skin of her face, stretching it taut like a mask. Owen felt the same force pulling at his own features, pressing down on his airways, making it impossible to breathe. His vision shrank to pinpricks. 

“Hang on, Vance,” Miraven forced the words out between gritted teeth. “You’re no good to anyone dead!”

The memory of warm, dark brown eyes swam into his sight, Lucy’s smiling face looking up at him from the transporter pad of Voyager’s shuttlecraft in that last, heady moment before she’d been snatched away so cruelly. He clamped down on his wild panic and forced himself to relax his diaphragm, allowing his respirator to fill his lungs with air. He didn’t need to fight for breath. He only needed to focus on riding out this torture. He let the breath out and fell into a feverish half-dreaming state, all agony and confusion, desperation and determination.

His last coherent thought was, _ Wait for me, Lucy. I’m coming! _


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucy Kang finally meets the crew of the Hypereia, and they all learn the exciting offer that Hux has in store for them.

CHAPTER 10

“What are we waiting for?” said Lucy. She and Hux were still in Lucy’s cabana, watching their guests through a life-sized holographic projection.

“Have a little patience, Lucy,” said Hux. “Don’t worry, they’ll wait.”

Lucy made a slow circle around the holographic tableau, studying the aliens with a critical eye. There were twelve of them in total, all seated around a long table in an otherwise deserted restaurant on deck twelve, the vendor arcade. The image of the restaurant shimmered like a mirage in the background of the hologram, but the table and the diners seemed as solid as if they were having dinner in the middle of Lucy’s cabana. 

The tabletop was packed with heaping platters of communal side dishes, a colorful array of sauces and garnishes, and each diner’s personal entree, specially crafted according to the biological needs and personal tastes of the individual. Some plates had already been scraped clean, and some had hardly even been touched. Everyone had a cup as well, but it was impossible to say how much anyone was drinking. The glasses refilled themselves as soon as they were set back on the table. 

They were a motley assortment of aliens, though they were all humanoid, more or less. By coincidence or habit or cultural norm, they’d sorted themselves by species. Seated at one end of the table were three aliens who were almost human in appearance, although their complexions ranged from brick red to dull copper, and they were all quite tall by human standards. Add to that their coarse, charcoal gray hair, their saw-toothed earlobes, and their pronounced, fang-like canine teeth, and no one would confuse the two species. They were Alixindrians, Lucy knew from her research. The one in the long, impeccably tailored brown coat at the head of the table was Dr. Haxle Ezen. He’d tried a few bites of everything on his plate, but he didn’t look particularly hungry. He held his glass lightly between two fingers, swirling the clear, blue-green liquid absent-mindedly as he studied the other diners with a broody expression.

To the left of the Alixindrians, there was one Ilian, a female, porcelain pale, with a trim and slender physique. Her black hair grew thick and long, but only from the crown of her head. She kept it combed over to the right side where it fell to her shoulder, parted by her right ear. Three small nubs below the hairline on either side of her forehead suggested the beginnings of horns that hadn’t yet broken through the skin. Her ears were soft, narrow, long, and agile, like a fawn’s, turning unconsciously towards sounds and twitching expressively as she engaged in conversation with the Alixindrian on her right. She had a smattering of small brown spots over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose like oversized freckles, and her eyes were almost perfectly circular, giving her a sort of haunted look that stood in contrast to her relaxed demeanor.

On her left was an Hobori; a sauroid with bright yellow scales, bulbous orange eyes, and a small, round mouth girded with thick, rubbery lips situated just under the tip of a short, lizard-like snout. Next to it was a big, furry being called a Refflik. He sat preternaturally still, his every movement deliberate and purpose-oriented, his eyes wide-set on either side of a broad nose and wide lips. He held the stem of his glass with long, delicate-looking fingers that extended from hands so furry that the shape of them was obscured in shag, and he dipped his telescoping tongue into his glass to drink.

Filling the rest of the table were six Faiacians, remarkable for the long, bristling quills that covered their heads in place of hair. Their skin was stormy gray with heavy undertones of blue, indigo, and violet. Sitting at the opposite end of the table from Dr. Haxle was their leader and the second mate of the  _ Hypereia _ , Rajak of Stonehollow. He hadn’t touched his food, but there was a little milky liquid spilled on the tabletop next to his glass. At some point, he’d had at least a sip of it. His gaze roamed the empty restaurant, no doubt wondering when Hux would reappear to explain this “exciting new offer” he had in store for them. 

Seated to his left was the lone Faiacian female in their group. She was their requisitions officer, Neska of Riverbend. She’d moved the food around on her plate without eating much of it, and there was no telling whether she’d touched her drink or not. She was listening to the conversations of her colleagues without contributing much herself. As Lucy watched, she heaved a sigh and took out her mobile device to check the time.

The audio on the projection was turned down low, but the voice of a particularly loud-mouthed Faiacian still carried above the din of conversation and out into the quiet Risan morning. “...Well, it was Hux’s suggestion to play Tangle, and anyways I can assure you I was a perfect gentleman…”

“Do you see the way they look at each other?” said Hux. “All these little, fleeting glances, once or twice a second. Their eyes are always roving, always asking and always telling, and they aren’t even aware of it. See the way their expressions change when their focus lands on a friend or a rival, a romantic interest or a relative stranger. You organics engage in constant subconscious communication, revealing great troves of information about yourselves every moment you’re awake. You can’t help yourselves.”

Lucy shook her head and turned away from the display. “This already felt creepy before you started offering color commentary, Hux.”

Hux shrugged. “Don’t think of it as peeping. We’re gathering user data in order to tailor our services.”

“That doesn’t help at all,” said Lucy. “What do you want me to get out of this, exactly?”

“You need exposure to their behavioral patterns to hone your adaptive subroutines. It’s analogous to feeding your universal translator with sample speech.”

Right, her “adaptive subroutines.” She should have known. Lucy glanced down at her hands and was hardly surprised to find her skin turning purple. She’d grown extremely pale over the months she’d spent secluded in the space station, but it wasn’t the lack of sun exposure to blame. Her skin pigments didn’t work that way anymore. She’d grown pale from lack of  _ social  _ exposure. Now, though, her skin was changing in front of her eyes, transitioning to a vivid shade between maroon and magenta that contrasted nicely with her pristine white jumpsuit.

Hux gave her an appraising look. “Not bad,” he said. “Not what I would have chosen, but I can see the benefit. You’ll be able to transition subtly, more red and brown for the Alixindri, more violet and gray for the Faiacians, without passing through ugly intermediate shades or causing a distraction with a flamboyant chameleon routine.”

Lucy shrugged. “Thanks, I guess? I can’t really take credit, though. It wasn’t my doing.”

“On the contrary!” said Hux. “They were  _ your  _ subconscious processes that achieved the effect.”

“My subconscious? Not my implants?”

“You’re still having trouble with this? Lucy, there’s no difference anymore. Your neuroprocessors treat your neurons just like an extension of their own circuitry, and they act in turn like extensions of your brain’s neural network. All of the changes you’ve been through have created countless connections between them, blending them together inextricably. It was already happening before the Array went offline, and I can tell just by surveying the data moving between you and the station, Lucy, the process is more or less complete.”

Lucy furrowed her brow, considering the implications of his claim. The powers of her implants certainly felt closer at hand these days. She didn’t need to visualize their activity on an imaginary console screen to work them anymore, although sometimes it helped. But did that really mean that there was no more distinction? The thought-inputs that popped into her head didn’t feel so foreign anymore, but that was just because she’d gotten used to them, right? It wasn’t like they were indistinguishable from her own thoughts… would that change?

“I think you’re just about ready,” said Hux. The holographic scene vanished. “Let’s go see you in action.”

Lucy started toward the lift platform, but something made her stop in her tracks. The thought of ‘adaptive subroutines’ distorting her personality was disturbing, but Lucy’s operational mandate didn’t give her much room to object.

Except, that wasn’t true anymore. Her deeper self stirred below the surface of her consciousness, reminding her that she was no longer bound to the mandates of this station. She wore the Trade Hub’s programming as a disguise, but she could rise above it anytime she liked. Hux could add any subroutine he wished to her shell program, but it wouldn’t affect her true self.

But just thinking about that fact meant her disguise was slipping. Hux could interpret the slightest microexpression, the subtlest flair of activity in her neocortex, the first whiff of stress hormones in her sweat. He couldn’t read her mind directly, but he could read just about anything short of it. She tamped down on her heretical thinking and let her shell program reassert itself.

Lucy blinked. Why had she stopped walking, again? She supposed she was having more difficulty with the prospect of new adaptive subroutines than she’d realized. She turned to Hux. 

“What will it be like?”

Hux flashed her an enigmatic smile. “You’ll see.”

She shook her head. “Hux, I need to know what I’m in for so I’m not caught off guard.”

“You won’t be caught off guard. You’ll barely even notice it happening.”

“Will it affect my reasoning? My decisions?”

Hux sighed. “Of course, Lucy, the same as anything does. The same way feeling your heart race makes you feel nervous, or yawning makes you aware that you’re tired. But no, it won’t override your executive initiation or plant strange ideas in your head. It’s all surface-level. Just think of it as a mask.”

_ Great, _ Lucy mused,  _ A mask over my mask. _ But she wasn’t sure what that stray thought was even referring to, so she put it out of her mind. She had a job to do, and she’d already put it off longer than necessary.

“Alright,” said Lucy. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

It was a short trip. She stepped onto the lift platform, and the next second she was on deck twelve, just around the corner from the crew of the  _ Hypereia. _ Hux strode ahead of her, and she burst out laughing at his appearance. His skin was suddenly reddish-gray, his hair in stiff braids, his facial features stretched into alien proportions, his eyes and eye sockets yellow-orange.

Hux stopped and turned back, watching her with a slightly chastising expression, and Lucy doubled over, laughing even harder. There hadn’t been much humor in her world lately, and his sudden transformation had been totally bizarre and unexpected, although in retrospect she had every reason to expect it. 

Hux watched her cooly for a moment, then he broke out in a big grin and spread his arms wide, welcoming her derision. 

That sort of killed the moment, which, Lucy supposed, was probably the whole point. She released the last of her humor with a big sigh. “Sorry,” she said. She straightened up. “Maybe warn me next time.” She walked past Hux toward the restaurant, and he caught up with her in a couple strides. They entered the restaurant side by side.

Rajak noticed them first, his distracted gaze coming into laser focus on the two of them as they approached. Neska quickly followed his gaze. Dr. Haxle turned around in his chair to see what they were looking at, and his intense bronze eyes locked immediately on Lucy’s. She held his gaze for a moment with a slightly challenging quirk of an eyebrow before turning to the others.

The conversation at the table died by degrees as the diners became aware of their presence until only one voice was left speaking.

“Did anyone not want their blue stuff? I wonder if Hux will let us take some extra portions when we leave. I got no idea what that stuff is, but I love it! Hey, why’s everyone so quiet all of a sudden?” The talker finally noticed Hux as he stepped up to the table between the Ilian and the Hobori. His eyes landed on Lucy, who hung back from the table a few steps. He stared at her with guileless admiration, and she flashed him a small smile. His jaw dropped.

“I’d like to thank you all for your patience,” said Hux, “and for agreeing to hear me out. I hope we can come to an agreement that will benefit all of us tremendously.”

Rajak’s eyes went from Hux to Lucy. He looked her over skeptically for a moment. When she acknowledged his attention with a little wave, he looked back to Hux. 

“All right, well, let’s hear it, then,” said Rajak. He dropped his fork on his plate and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “What’s this big offer you’ve got in mind?”

“Straight to business, then,” Hux said with an approving nod. He looked to Rajak, Neska, and Haxle in turn. “It has recently come to my attention that the Argivian state has collapsed.”

Rajak scoffed. “That’s news to you, is it?”

“Indeed,” said Hux. “Although of course, I understand that this has been the reality for ten centuries. And yet, it seems that after all this time, much of their territories and resources remain unclaimed.”

“You want  _ territory _ ?” said Neska, alarmed.

Hux waved his hands to clear away the misconception. “Goodness, no! Territorial acquisitions are not a part of my purview. What I’m interested in is just a small quantity of one resource. I believe you would classify it as a kind of argivium, but I don’t believe it’s commonly known in your society. Outside of your star cluster, it would be known as polyphasic neutronium. I need two standards.”

The people at the table exchanged glances. “Seeing as I’m pretty sure we don’t have any of that in the ship’s stores,” said Rajak, “I gather you’d like us to pick some up for you.”

Hux nodded. “Precisely. I’ve discovered a few potential sites in the Argus Cluster that I  _ believe  _ may have what I need. I’ll provide you all the details I’ve gathered about these places, and I’ll leave it to you to retrieve it for me.”

“How far away are we talking?” said Rajak.

“That will depend,” said Hux, “on which sites you visit, and in what order, and how much luck you have at each. I won’t lie to you; retrieving the required quantity will likely prove challenging. It’s possible you’ll find the full two standards at your first destination, but I wouldn’t bet on it. It’s likely you’ll need to visit five or six, possibly more.”

Rajak thought for a second. “So you’re asking us to spend the next several hundred turns, ferrying Haxle’s little club from one Argivian ruin to another, hunting for lost treasure?”

Hux smiled. “Not a big departure for you, I know.”

Rajak shared a doubtful look with Neska, then shook his head.

Dr. Haxle chose that moment to speak up. “Such an enormous undertaking,” he said, “surely must be worth a commensurately fantastic reward.”

Hux’s smile grew as he turned to the archaeologist. “Oh, absolutely.”

Haxle sat forward in his chair, looking eager. 

“This is what you were softening us up for all along, isn’t it?” said Neska.

Hux turned a surprised look on her. “Not at all!” he said. “I only learned about this opportunity as you were preparing to depart. Truly a fortunate development, considering how poorly our negotiations were proceeding.”

“Uh huh,” said Neska, though she didn’t sound convinced.

Rajak had a look of fierce concentration. “Show us a map, first of all,” he said.

Hux nodded. He waved his arm, and a hologram appeared above the table displaying the distinct shape of the Argus Cluster; two spinning disks of stars not quite touching edge to edge, offset from each other by about thirty degrees, and a long stream of stars arcing over the discs. Throughout the hologram, little blue lights attached to short annotations marked the locations where polyphasic neutronium might be found. Dr. Haxle stood up from his seat and came around the far side of the table to get a closer look. 

Lucy studied the hologram as well, taking in the chaotic geography of the realm these people called home for the first time. Crowded bands of stars whipped around precipitous gravity wells at a breakneck pace, throwing off whorls of stars into the surrounding cosmos. It all appeared stationary, of course; as if two colliding cyclones had frozen just moments before impact. But by interstellar standards, it was all moving quite fast; it was only the vast distances of space that made it look still. It was hard to believe habitable planets survived in such tumultuous space. Some special cosmological phenomenon must have played a part in seeding this inhospitable terrain with so much life, but what that could be was beyond the realm of Lucy’s expertise. She could only gaze into the chaos and marvel.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, Lucy’s focus shifted through the translucent display and landed on Dr. Haxle on the other side. Their eyes met, and he held her gaze for a long moment. She contemplated the predatory glint in his eyes, wondering if that hunger was always there, or if it was inspired by the prospect of finding lost treasure. For a man of his profession, surely this must have been a tempting opportunity.

“A lot of these sites are far removed from the trade winds,” said Rajak. He was studying the map closely, leaning side to side to better judge where the markers were placed within the cluster and pointing out specific ones. “These ones would take over a year to reach, and these ones are so far down Neptis’ Well, trying to reach them would be tantamount to suicide.”

Haxle didn’t seem to be listening. His gaze remained fixed on Lucy. “You haven’t introduced us to your friend,” said Dr. Haxle.

Hux looked a bit caught off guard. He looked over at Lucy and gave a conspiratory wink only she could see. “Of course! How impolite of me. Everyone, this is Ms. Lucy. Lucy, this is Mr. Rajak, Ms. Neska, Mr. Revik, Mr. Greg, Mr. Ogden, Mr. Quidon, Dr. Haxle, Mr. Ziali, Ms. Tresida, Mr. Sipthidith, Mr. Hrrglrich, and Mr. Tova,” he said, going around the table. She ordinarily wouldn’t have had a chance in hell of memorizing all these strange-sounding names, but it was a trivial task to put on her implants.

Lucy smiled brightly and waved to the table. “Hello, everyone. It’s nice to meet you!”

Rajak met her eye briefly, but then he seemed to look straight through her. “Is this one of your holograms, Hux?”

Hux and Lucy both shook their heads. “Lucy is flesh and blood just like you,” said Hux. “She comes from a seaside village on a quaint little colony planet called Alpha Centauri, not too different from Kaden or Xuali.”

“Why is she here now?” said Neska.

“Lucy is going to help you on your mission,” said Hux.

Somewhere deep in the back of her mind, Lucy felt an exalted thrill at this revelation. For the most part, though, she merely looked forward to a temporary change of scenery. She’d been curious whether this was what Hux had in mind.

Rajak and Neska traded a glance. “You want to stick us with a babysitter?” said Rajak.

Hux shook his head. “You don’t need a babysitter. You’re all adults, and I’ve no doubt I’ll be able to count on you to do your best, especially when you hear what I’m offering. No, Lucy will serve as a member of your crew. Her unique set of skills will go a long way to ensuring the success of your mission, and besides that, you’ll find she makes for fantastic company. Think of her services as one of the perks of our deal.”

“Then there shouldn’t be an issue if we turn you down on that particular perk,” said Rajak.

Hux laughed as if Rajak had told a little joke and changed the subject. “But now, let’s get to the good part, shall we? I know you’ve all been wondering, so why not ask?”

He paused expectantly. The people at the table traded looks.

“Is Alphacentury outside of the cluster?” said Greg. “Is it far?”

Lucy laughed. “Yes, it’s very far away.”

The others ignored the non-sequitur. “Why don’t you just spit it out already?” said Rajak. “What’s on the table? What’s in it for us?”

Hux snapped his fingers. “That’s the question!” Then he held up three fingers. “First of all,” said Hux, and he bent back one finger with his other hand, “The Trade Hub will repair your ship, better than new. That includes restoring your garden, upgrading your weapons and hull plating, augmenting your sail geometry, and upgrading your engines.”

“Will you install faster-than-light engines?” said Rajak.

Hux winced. “Better not. I understand there are certain… forces… in the Argus Cluster that object to such things.”

Rajak looked chastened. Evidently, he took Hux’s point. Lucy wondered what “forces” they were talking about.

“In fact,” said Hux, “We’ll need to be careful to limit the scope of upgrades so as not to alert anyone to your extracelestial encounter. You’ll want to keep our arrangement private for the duration of this mission.

“Afterwards,” Hux addressed Dr. Haxle, “If you want to publish everything you’ve experienced here, you’re welcome to do so, of course. But for now, it’s best to avoid any unnecessary attention.”

Dr. Haxle nodded his understanding. “Of course.”

Hux turned back to Rajak and bent back a second finger. “Secondly, I will fill your stores with food, water, and any mission-specific equipment you request, within reason.”

Rajak was starting to get a little glint of avarice in his eye. Neska looked tempted but worried. Haxle looked pleased as punch.

“Thirdly,” said Hux, grabbing the third finger, “There’s Ms. Lucy. She’ll serve your crew however you like for the duration of your mission, and not only in mission-specific capacities. So long as you continue to make a good-faith effort to adhere to the terms of our agreement, she will be at your disposal, day or night. She’ll require no compensation, only room and board. And among her innumerable talents, she is imminently qualified to act as your interim gardener.”

Lucy didn’t let his words shake her pleasant bearing, but she was a little aggravated. Her gardening experience was limited to summer mornings spent pulling up weeds in her mother’s herb garden as a form of punishment. And what was worse, Hux made her sound almost like a slave!

Rajak rolled his eyes. “Is this negotiable?”

“We’ll need her, Rajak,” said Dr. Haxle. “There’s no one else on your crew I’d trust to do the job since Oop’tu passed.” He looked to Lucy. “But will you only serve under Solaad? What about me?”

She gave him a slightly disapproving look and turned to Hux. 

“Lucy will serve the orders of both teams. You’ll need to work out the details among yourselves. At the very least, you’ll want her managing the garden on the  _ Hypereia,  _ and you’ll need her along on excavations, as well. Some of the sites you’ll be visiting will be inaccessible without her help, and only she will know the way to handle polyphasic neutronium safely.”

_ I will? _ Lucy wondered if that was buried somewhere in all the data the station had loaded into her brain. She’d have to do some digging.

Hux addressed Rajak specifically. “I understand your reluctance to trust us, but you’ll see soon enough what a great asset Lucy will be for your crew. She is a highly educated biologist trained by one of the finest military institutions in the galaxy, and she has certain abilities that will give you an edge in all sorts of situations.

“Now,” Hux went on, “Those are all the things I’m offering upfront. Let’s talk about what you’ll get upon completion.”

Rajak nodded, but Lucy saw his expression closing off. Neska’s anxieties were still plain, but now she seemed more guarded.

Hux went on regardless, counting on his fingers again. “For the crew of the  _ Hypereia _ : first of all, I’ll repair any damages you incur during the course of your mission. Secondly, I’ll fill your holds with argivium. Fifty standards of argivium two, thirty standards of argivium four, twenty standards of argivium seven, and ten standards of argivium thirteen. The quantities and varieties are negotiable, but that’s my price range on this point.”

He looked pointedly to Rajak and Neska, so they nodded understanding.

“We’ll need to take all of this to our captain before we can agree to anything, of course,” said Rajak.

Hux nodded. “Of course. We’ll put all of this in writing before you head back so Captain Solaad can review the terms.”

“And what about us?” said Dr. Haxle. 

“For  _ you _ , Dr. Haxle,” said Hux, “I’ll provide you all of the data I’ve downloaded from your Argivian data chips in a format that you can easily store, carry, and read on your own devices, at least to the extent that your technology is capable of rendering it. I’ll also provide you with a device that you can use to read and convert these data chips for yourself, on a permanent lease.”

Dr. Haxle shook his head. “What if your device breaks down? I need the secret to making my own chip reader.”

Hux considered. “If you prefer, I could give you schematics, which you could bring to the engineers of your world. With a few years of study, they should be able to replicate the design. But you understand, you’ll be giving up access to my own far superior design.”

Dr. Haxle thought for a moment. “I’ll take…”

Hux put up a forestalling hand. “Tell you what,” he said, “Let me know which one you decide when you get back from your mission.”

“How do we know you’ll even  _ be  _ here when we get back?” said Rajak.

“I’m always here,” said Hux. “And as long as you have Ms. Lucy with you,” he put an intangible hand on Lucy’s shoulder, “you’ll be able to return when you’re ready.”

That was news to Lucy. Was Hux going to give her some kind of subspace transponder so she could signal him?

A quiet moment stretched while everyone mulled over what they’d heard. Then Rajak braced his hands on the tabletop and pushed himself to his feet, and the others followed suit. “We’ll bring your offer to our captain,” said Rajak.

Hux nodded. “I’ll show you to your vessels.”

While Hux conducted their guests back to the flight deck, Lucy and her own, human-looking Hux stood in the open walkway between empty shops in the vendors’ arcade.

“You were fantastic, Lucy,” said Hux.

“How so?” said Lucy. “I don’t think I did much at all.”

“On the contrary,” said Hux. “You had most of them eating out of your hand!”

Lucy sniffed. “That Greg character certainly seemed taken with me, but other than him…”

“Oh, Lucy, Lucy,” Hux shook his head. “You don’t even  _ realize _ . That archaeologist is almost as interested in acquiring  _ you  _ as he is looting all those ruins I just showed him.”

Lucy vividly recalled the hunger in Haxle’s predatory gaze as he watched her from across the table. “Yikes,” she said.

Hux gave her a curious look. “Does that prospect perturb you?”

Lucy nodded. “Safe to say.”

“Well, try to keep your focus. You’re going to have your hands full dealing with that crew of drifters and misfits.”

“Are you so sure they’ll accept your deal?” She’d seen the way Rajak and Neska had closed down as Hux described his offer.

Hux nodded. “Oh, I’ve no doubt. But you’ll have to stay sharp and play it smart to make them hold up their end. I give it even odds they’ll flush you out the airlock at the first opportunity unless you talk them out of it.”

<strike> -o--o--o- </strike>

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” said Polidem. He sat at his station on the command deck, neck craned, staring up at the blot of light slowly growing larger through the deckhead windows. Everyone on the deck was doing likewise, even Captain Solaad from his perch in the captain’s chair. They’d made their last course correction, they’d battened down every hatch and secured every loose stem bolt and stem bolt sealer, sealed every bulkhead and every plumbing fixture. All that was left was to kill the thrust and let their momentum carry them through the dreaded “worm hole” and into an unimaginable realm.

“Shek, no,” said Captain Solaad. “But no one’s come up with a better one yet.”

Polidem begged to differ. He’d take being broke down and stranded in deep space over that worm-eaten abscess in the flesh of space any day. But who cared what Polidem thought?

The ones who had returned from the other side had told stories too fantastic to believe. A man made of light with the powers of a scion, a space station with  _ real _ gravity, food and drink appearing out of thin air. They sounded out of their minds. Polidem hoped they hadn’t been brainwashed and sent back to bring the rest of them to their deaths.

The worm hole swelled larger over their heads as they drew near, and the rangefinder in Polidem’s terminal was reporting a rapidly shrinking distance to target, but he wasn’t watching it. So, he managed to be caught completely off guard when the ship’s deflector cone met the object, and it flared brighter than the twin suns of Iliax.

“Impact!” he reported, belatedly.

Captain Solaad gave him a withering glare. “Thanks for the heads up,” he said as the whole world outside of the ship went white for a moment and a tremble ran through the deck.

Then, they were through to the other side, and Polidem beheld a void populated with countless more worm holes arranged in sweeping, crisscrossing arcs as far as the eye could see, and countless pyramidal structures floating in between them.

“We’re getting a transmission from the station, Captain,” said Rajak. “It’s the same one we received when we arrived in shuttles, complete with another copy of the terms and conditions.”

“Play it for me,” said Solaad, and Rajak nodded.

“Welcome, customers! To the Delurididug Deep Space Travel Network and--”

The transmission ended abruptly, replaced with a visual transmission from the station. A pair of aliens stood in a pristine white room, one of them a tall, handsome male with reddish-gray skin and curiously Ilian-looking horns, the other an objectively beautiful female with vivid, red-violet skin and lustrous black hair that covered the whole dome of her head. He dressed like a wealthy businessman who might have come from any number of worlds in the cluster, while she wore a form-fitting, all-white jumpsuit with sharp black trim. They made for an odd pair.

“Hello, Captain Solaad!” said the man. “I’m Hux, the spokesman for the Delurididug Trade Hub. I’m happy to finally meet you!”

“Good to meet you, too,” said Captain Solaad, and he crossed his hands over his chest and bowed his head with a quick, pro forma quill-fan display. “I’ve come to take you up on your offer.”

“Excellent!” said Hux, clapping his hands together. “Did you want to modify any of the terms? I told your representatives that the argivium quantities I offered were only a suggestion. If you’d like to--”

“Yes, yes,” said Captain Solaad, “Neska will go over all of that with you. I’m sure you’ll decide on an acceptable exchange. For now, I’m just interested in learning how you’ll go about fixing up this ship.”

Hux nodded. “Very well, then. First, you’ll need to bring your ship a bit closer. If you’ll follow the approach procedures we’re sending you now, the station will extend its gravity envelope and secure your vessel with tractor tethers. In the meantime, if you’ll forward me to Ms. Neska, we can finalize the terms of our agreement.”

The captain agreed, and over the next few spanns, the  _ Hypereia  _ engaged in a series of carefully orchestrated maneuvers that were fed to their navigation computer directly by the station, bringing them to a relative stop alongside the Trade Hub. The station caught their vessel in the grasp of four silvery rays of light that arrested the last of their momentum as solidly as docking clamps of solid argivium four. Then Hux alerted them to the imminent onset of gravity, and a feeling that Polidem had learned to associate with upward thrust gradually took hold, settling him in his seat.

His sense of amazement had quickly been saturated upon arriving in this place, and he found himself acting on autopilot, performing his duties in a numb state of shock. Illusory thrust? Why not? They were being held stationary by glittery spotlights, for Jovis’ sake!

“Hux is calling again, Captain,” said Rajak. At a nod from Solaad, Rajak put Hux back on the screen.

“I commend your crew on their performance, Captain!” said Hux. “Given the capabilities of your vessel, I’d say the execution of that maneuver was masterful.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hux,” said Captain Solaad. “I’ll pass along your compliments to the crew.”

Hux nodded. “I’m pleased to report that Ms. Neska and I have gone over the terms of our agreement and arrived at a mutually satisfactory bargain. Dr. Haxle has already authorized a separate deal, So If you’ll go over the contract that I’m transmitting now and offer your verbal assent for the record, then we can get to work!”

Solaad pulled the arm-mounted terminal screen out from behind his chair as Rajak received the contract and made it available for him.

Over the next spann and a half, the command deck was silent. Hux and the alien woman watched passively from the big screen as Solaad read the agreement. Then he tapped a couple keys on his terminal. “I agree to the terms,” he declared at length, and Hux’s grin grew very wide.

“Excellent! I’ll initiate the repair sequence.”

“Captain, look!” Ovan cried out from the third level of the command deck. All eyes went to the windows. Polidem watched as dozens of little white robots went zipping into space around the  _ Hypereia  _ like Areclian milk beetles with glowing blue abdomens, skimming along the hull, diving under the lowered sails, landing and clustering in dozens of spots along the length of the vessel.

“No cause for alarm,” said Hux. “My repair drones will make quick work of the external repairs and upgrades. As for the internal repairs, I’ll need to send my liaison over with a few more drones to supervise efforts.” He gestured to the female alien with him, and she flashed a dazzling smile.

“Permission to come aboard, Captain?” she said.

“Granted,” said Solaad, “Should I ready a docking port, or…”

The lady vanished from the screen in a flash of white light, and in the next instant, she appeared on the command deck of the  _ Hypereia  _ in the same fashion, accompanied by six little white robots, like smaller versions of the ones buzzing about outside, but with four highly articulated legs instead of glowing abdomens. They stood stationary, turning their little robotic heads this way and that, taking in their surroundings. 

Polidem’s heart leapt to his throat.  _ They’re scions! _ he thought, but a moment later, he was already second-guessing himself. Void creatures didn’t necessarily fit such tidy classifications. 

The woman stood facing the captain’s perch from the middle section. She strode up the steps to the first section, then stepped back with one foot, crossed her hands over her chest, and bowed her head in the Faiacian manner.

“I’m Lucy Kang,” she said, “Reporting for duty.” The captain rose to his feet and descended slowly to the first step of his perch, studying her carefully.

After a moment, he spoke. “I’m Captain Solaad. Welcome aboard.”

She extended her hand to him, and he glanced at it. Then he reached out his own hand, and she took hold of his and shook it up and down. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

“Likewise,” he said.

She released his hand and turned around, taking in her surroundings with her wide, violet-brown eyes. She had a positively infectious enthusiasm about her, regarding her surroundings with an unbridled wonder. Polidem noticed her skin had taken on a bit more of a grayish tint since she’d teleported aboard, making her look slightly more at home on the Faiacian-run freighter. He wondered if it was a trick of the light or some strange bodily process.

“This is beautiful,” she said. “You keep this ship under thrust almost all the time, huh?”

“We find it keeps things from floating away,” said the captain. 

She glanced back at him and flashed her dazzling smile. “Must be hard on your engines, though,” she said.

He shrugged, loosening up a bit, although his scrutinizing gaze never left her for an instant. “They’re built for it. And the ram scoop ensures we never run short of reactor mass or propellant. How do  _ you _ lot do it?”

Lucy shrugged. “Hell if I know,” she said, “Something with gravitons. That’s not my expertise, though. I’m in the life sciences.”

“Of course,” said the captain. “You’re staying on with us when we leave, is that right?”

Lucy nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll be at your service for the duration of our mission.”

“Hux claims you’re an expert gardener. But I can’t imagine you’ve ever worked with our plants before, have you?”

Lucy winced. “Truthfully, sir, I’m not a gardener at all. I’m a biologist specializing in molecular and xenobiology as well as bioneural systems. But I’ve read everything in this ship’s unencrypted files on the subject, and I have no doubt I’ll adapt quickly.”

“Hum… One of these days we’re going to have to talk about your people’s data collection methods. But it doesn’t sound to me like you’re any more qualified to do this work than the people who’ve lived and worked in harmony with this garden for the last several years.”

Lucy tilted her head thoughtfully. “I’m sure I’ll need their guidance to do a good job. I’m not claiming I know a better way, because truthfully, I don’t. But I  _ do _ know how to measure and tweak soil pH, manage and utilize nitrogen-fixing bacteria, screen soil and water for toxic concentrations and contaminants…”

Solaad shrugged. “Well, as long as you’re willing to learn, maybe you can be a help.”

Lucy nodded. “I certainly hope so. We’re going to be working together for quite a while.”

“And your… powers?” said Solaad.

Lucy gave him a blank look.

“Like teleporting over here. Can you do a lot of things like that? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Lucy shook her head and waved dismissively. “That wasn’t me, that was the station. I’m just a mortal girl. I mean… I’ve got a certain way with computers, you could say, and my skin tends to change colors a bit, but beyond that…”

The captain smiled, some of the tension leaving his expression. “Ah. That’s a shame. We could use a teleporter up in sail control.”

Lucy smiled back and shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint you?”

She glanced around at her robots, still standing by. “Well, time’s a-wasting. Where would you like us to start?”

<strike> -o--o--o- </strike>

Lucy stood on the platform overlooking the garden. She’d been expecting something more like the aeroponics bay on  _ Voyager, _ all planters and grow boxes, but  _ Hypereia’s _ garden deck was more like a public park with a small communal farm. The garden took up one whole quadrant of deck one, which meant the open, grass-carpeted layout conformed to a ninety-degree circular arc between the outer bulkhead and the inner hub, the shape of a big macaroni noodle.

She watched as her repair drones ran scans on the fallen trees and fed vital figures straight to her implants, including hydration levels, stress signals, tissue damage, etc. She tried to pretend she knew what to do with all that data, but really, all she could think to do was stand the trees back up again, pat the soil down neatly, administer a cocktail of plant growth serums and protectants, and hope they recovered. It was going to take a lot more study on her part to figure out the right way to run a garden like this.

The repairs to the rest of the ship had been easy. The robots had the schematics of the vessel, and Hux had worked out the upgrades in advance. All she’d had to do was point them at their tasks and watch them work. Now, though, she was faced with a room full of dead and dying plants and animals, with no clear blueprint to follow and no preprogrammed upgrades to institute, relying on a head full of downloaded textbooks and her own peripherally related expertise to save this delicate ecosystem before it was too late.

She sent her drones into the pen in the corner of the deck to tend to the quillcocks, but the moment the cage opened, the frightened birds scattered into the garden. It was the work of a couple minutes for the drones to hunt and capture each one, scan it for harm, render aid in the form of dermal regenerators, bone growth formulas, and nutrient injections, and return it to the pen. Then she tackled the physical damage to the deck; the severed support cables for the bridge, the busted full-spectrum lights, and the damaged water lines.

As she worked, the heavy hydraulic door lurched open behind her, and footsteps rattled the platform.

“I must say, you are an impressive being, Ms. Lucy,” said Dr. Haxle.

Lucy ignored him. This man was going to be a serious problem for her, she already knew it.

“I’ve been touring the repairs you’ve made throughout the ship. Is this the last of them?”

She nodded. “I can’t take much credit,” she said. “Hux programmed the drones. I just gave them a little supervision.”

He stood next to her, towering over her. The top of her head came up to his armpit. She refused to look in his direction, focusing intently on her robots.

“Are you communicating with them?” said Haxle.

Lucy nodded. “I can send and receive information.”

“How does that work? Are you telepathic? Or are you…”

Lucy heaved a resigned sigh and turned to face him, stepping back so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck to look him in the eye. “I’m a cyborg, yes.”

He was taken aback, a conflicted look running over his face as he reevaluated her. Lucy wasn’t surprised. Typically, if a species survived their world’s information age, they did it either by embracing cyborgs or rejecting them completely. Most people rejected them.

“I’m also genetically modified and physically augmented,” said Lucy, choosing just to rip the bandaid clean off. Hopefully, his disgust would serve to make him keep a respectful distance in the future.

Haxle nodded. “I suppose that’s normal for… your kind.” He broke eye contact for a moment and forced himself to face her again. Lucy was relieved and, paradoxically, a little offended to see that the predatory hunger was gone from his eyes. 

She shook her head and looked back to her machines. “I don’t have a ‘kind’ anymore.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“I look forward to working with you, Ms. Lucy,” Haxle said at length. “But I should warn you…”

He let the words hang, and she gave him a sidelong glance. 

“Some of the others don’t share my enthusiasm. I don’t actually  _ know  _ what Solaad and his men plan to do yet, but be wary. And if you ever have cause to fear, you can come to me. Understand?”

Lucy didn’t respond.

“I’ll protect you,” said Haxle. “And I’ll protect our deal. You and Hux have given us a fantastic opportunity. It’s really all I’ve ever wanted. The others, though… they’re not so open-minded. They don’t see the possibilities in front of them. They only care about reaching the next port, taking the next job, making a quick buck. They don’t want you getting in the way of that. They’re liable to do something… untoward.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He put his almost-human hand on her shoulder for a moment, then turned and headed back out of the garden.

Lucy pondered his warning as she steered her robots from one corner of the garden to the next, tidying up rows of crops, reburying roots, and moistening the dry patches of soil. 

How likely was it that his words had been entirely genuine? What did he plan to accomplish by sabotaging her relationship with the rest of the crew? 

When the obvious damage was pretty much handled, she signaled her drones to release swarms of smaller, insect-sized drones into the ventilation system and plumbing fixtures to track down and repair any damage in hard-to-reach places. 

Would Solaad resort to murder, just to escape their deal? He didn’t strike her as a pirate, but looks could be deceiving. Or maybe, he’d just try to maroon her on a desert planet. 

When the little insect-sized robots were done in the walls and ceiling, they swarmed back out of the vents and returned to their motherships. Now, at least the non-living aspects of the garden were good as new. The plants and animals were still suffering, but at least they’d been put in order.

As the drones put on the finishing touches, one of them abandoned its task and approached Lucy where she stood on the entry platform. She watched it with interest. Seeing as she hadn’t ordered the thing to approach her, she assumed Hux or some other subroutine of the Trade Hub was giving it direction.

It climbed up onto the platform and stood facing her, looking up at her almost like a curious animal for a beat before a holographic emitter under its optical sensor flared to life, and a projection of Hux appeared in front of Lucy.

Hux gave the garden an appreciative glance. “Good work, Lucy.”

“Yeah, this was the easy part,” she said.

“You’re right about that,” he said. “But you’ll have this little biome running at peak efficiency in no time. Of that, I have no doubt.”

“Maybe,” said Lucy. “It would be a lot easier if you’d let me hang on to one or two of these handy drones.”

Hux shook his head. She hadn’t expected him to agree, anyways. “Not part of the deal, I’m afraid. Besides, they’d be hard to explain away. You can’t afford to draw too much attention to this ship, you know. As far as the outside world is concerned, the  _ Hypereia _ is just carrying on with the same work it’s done for almost a year already, ferrying around a team of archaeologists from one ruin to another. To anyone outside of this ship, you’ll be nothing more than a young botanist from some obscure world in the Argus Cluster. You can’t tip your hand any further than that, Lucy. There are forces at play in this place that will take exception to your presence here.” He gave her a dire look. 

She nodded. “What forces?” 

Hux shook his head. “I only know what I’ve read in this vessel’s computer. Entities that were considered myths by the Argivians several thousand years ago now appear to be wondering this space in the flesh. They may truly be higher life forms, or they may merely be artificial or augmented lifeforms, like you or me. But it certainly seems that they’re real, and many of them are fiercely opposed to outside interference in their realm.”

“You mean the scions?” said Lucy. She’d read a bit about them for herself in the database of the  _ Hypereia _ , although she hadn’t sussed out exactly what the texts had been referring to.

Hux nodded. “The scions, and their  _ progenitors _ .”

Lucy’s brow furrowed. “You mean their gods? I thought they were just black holes.”

Hux shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe they are. Maybe the scions claimed their provenance as a way of co-opting the local religion. But  _ something _ destroyed the Argivian civilization almost overnight, and I mean obliterated ninety-nine percent of their population. The Argivians weren’t something to sneeze at either, Lucy.”

“Well, I imagine that would be a scary thought,” said Lucy. “You know, if I were still capable of scary thoughts.”

Hux offered half a chuckle at her dry humor.

“Why are we doing this, exactly?” said Lucy. “Why are we going to the trouble? What’s so valuable about polyphasic neutronium?”

“Oh, it’s a fascinating substance. It’s as dense and impervious as standard neutronium, but it exists in several discrete quantum phase states, simultaneously.”

Lucy stared at him blandly, not really knowing or caring about the implications of his words.

“It’s the key component to repairing the Trade Hub’s distributed power core,” said Hux.

“Really?” said Lucy. “You mean if we find some…”

“We’ll be able to fortify the containment grid and ramp up power levels to full capacity.”

“You’ll be able to bring the Travel Network online,” said Lucy.

Hux nodded. “We’ll be able to access the full Travel Network, including all the other subspace hubs, and reach out to the rest of the Delurididug Trade Federation at last.”

Lucy knew that Hux’s holographic aspect only ever displayed the emotions he wished her to see, and his underlying algorithms were largely motivated by cold calculations. But the fervor in his voice and the excitement on his face compounded to a degree that she couldn’t help but find a bit unseemly, as if she were glimpsing something in him that was ordinarily hidden away. Maybe he was trying to stoke the same level of fervor in her, or maybe there were some actual, genuine emotions finally showing through the facade. 

Lucy knew that the prospect of restoring the Travel Network to full operation signified the ultimate fulfillment of her mandate. She should have been almost as excited as he seemed to be. But deep down, she couldn’t ignore a bubbling sense of defiance, and thoughts and feelings she’d been hiding even from herself were threatening to percolate to the surface.

And yet, Lucy smiled gleefully with Hux. “That’s fantastic!” she said, so sincerely that she almost convinced herself. She sensed her adaptive subroutines at work, letting her effortlessly portray the emotions and sentiments that her target wanted to see. Would that trick work even on Hux? 

How odd. Lucy pictured herself as a Matryoshka doll, each nested version of herself making a different face than the one above it. It was a dizzying experience.

“So now you understand why this mission is so vital,” said Hux. 

Lucy nodded resolutely. The feeling of emotional vertigo passed without ever reaching the surface, and she shrugged it off. She was probably just tired and letting her imagination run wild. She hadn’t had a proper rest since her big push to bring the CNA back online. 

“Of course,” said Lucy. “Only… you said I would know the proper way to handle this stuff, but…”

“Right! I’m going to give you a new operative subroutine to facilitate your transition from systems maintenance to field operations! You should find it a very… exhilarating experience, I expect.”

“Huh? You mean you’re giving me a whole new programming suite? Complete with mandates and all that stuff?”

Hux nodded. “And that’s just the start. You’ll be blown away with all the new features. I can hardly wait…”

Lucy’s deeper consciousness roiled at the prospect of a new operating package, but she consoled herself that it would only affect her shell program. She didn’t know if that would make it any easier to cope with, though. She steeled herself for the onslaught of foreign knowledge and false imperatives while her bearing conveyed only placid acceptance.

“However…” said Hux, “I don’t want to overwhelm you with too much new information all at once. So I’ll provide you the package now, but I don’t recommend you install it until you’ve settled into your role on this ship. Give it a week or two. It’ll be an adjustment, but believe me, you will find it extremely useful.”

“But what are all these new features?” said Lucy. 

“Oh, you’ll see,” said Hux. He gave her a sly smile and added, “I’ll be seeing you, Lucy,” and then he vanished.

<strike> -o--o--o- </strike>

After less than a quarter turn, the repairs were complete. Solaad could scarcely believe it. The  _ Hypereia _ was resplendent in shiny new argivium armor, just like she’d been in a previous lifetime, serving as a frigate in the Royal Navy of Iliax. Her sails were streamlined and made to maneuver fluidly and gracefully, and her new bearings were flawless. Her new servos had twice the torque. Her fusion core was operating at a hundred and twenty-five percent efficiency. Her ram scoop cast a ten-percent wider net with ten-percent less power drain. The magnetic constrictor coils of her plasma conduits were humming like new. Gone were most of the cheap chemical lasers and plasma warheads; back were the railguns and fusion warheads of old. Hux had followed the old design specs to a T, unwilling to outfit the old ship with “alien” weaponry. He had no compunctions about masterfully disguising the upgraded weapons housings, though. He lined the ports with argivium twelve, which would hide them from the screening techniques of almost any port in the cluster. A few old lasers had been left in place so inspectors wouldn’t get suspicious at a heavily armored freighter that was seemingly devoid of defensive weapons. 

And as if that weren’t enough, the Trade Hub had even gone so far as to slap on a fresh coat of paint! The deflector cone, the port-dorsal and the starboard-ventral sails were black, and the habitation drum, the port-ventral and the starboard-dorsal sails were royal blue, the colors of the Faiacian Free Commerce Association’s sigil. The colors declared their vessel as a proud merchant ship, and the combination of heavy armor and seemingly light armaments declared their intentions to take no guff and give no grief.

And then there was the hold full of supplies to sustain them in deep space for two hundred turns or more, so long as Solaad didn’t mind going without small niceties like tega leaf or spirits. Which he did mind, in point of fact, but it was a comfort to have nonetheless.

The only fly in the ointment was the deal he’d made to procure all of this, and the constant reminder he’d been stuck with in the form of a strange and spirited young woman named Lucy Kang. 

He’d spent the last year in the company of insufferable treasure hunters, wandering out to every gods-forsaken rock an eight-turn or more off the beaten track, trying to eek out enough of a profit to survive on the side while waiting for his passengers’ pie-in-the-sky dreams finally to pay off, so that he could finally be paid what he’d been promised. He didn’t much fancy the notion of spending the next year or ten in the exact same fashion. And as powerful as these Delurididug undeniably were, it really didn’t seem like their grasp extended much beyond their little pocket of faerie space, way out here in the middle of nowhere. And this was a place he would certainly never return to again if he could help it.

If only it weren’t for Lucy Kang. He looked down from his seat at the vibrant young woman, standing just to the left of the captain’s perch. She looked up at him with her effervescent smile, and he flashed a tight-lipped smile in return. He looked to his right at Dr. Haxle, loitering on the command deck to witness their departure from Hub Space. He had no legitimate reason to be on the command deck, but Solaad had learned to pick his battles with the churlish archaeologist. He would only become more of a thorn in his side if he didn’t give the man a little leeway here or there.

“I’m transmitting your departure instructions now,” said Hux.

Rajak glanced back from his station and nodded confirmation. With a couple taps of his screen, the suggested flight plan jumped to Solaad’s mobile. He gave it a cursory once-over and found it perfectly adequate. He thumbed on the shipwide comm system and said, “All hands, brace for maneuvers.” He glanced down and verified Lucy and Haxle were strapping themselves into vacant seats, then looked back to the screen. “We’re ready when you are.”

“Releasing tractor tethers,” said Hux. “Withdrawing gravity envelope.”

“Anchors away,” Lucy quipped as weightlessness settled over the ship. Solaad ignored the unfamiliar expression and began coordinating the ship’s departure. Soon, they were sailing head-on towards the wormhole. 

“Impact with the worm hole in five…” announced Polidem, “four… three…”

“Safe travels,” said Hux. “Goodbye for now, Lucy.”

Solaad glanced down at the human and saw her waving back at Hux with a smile on her face.

“Two… One…”

Then, although her smile didn’t waver in the least, she closed her waving hand, turned it around, and extended her middle finger.

Solaad assumed it was a gesture of farewell, but he caught a glimpse of Hux’s expression shifting from a bittersweet smile to a look of consternation.

“Impact!”

The screen blinked out as the world went white around them, and then they were in open space again, and Solaad felt a weight lift off his chest that had nothing to do with the ship’s thrust.

A spontaneous cheer went up around the deck, and Solaad thumbed on the shipwide comm circuit again. “All hands, I’m happy to announce that we are back underway. In a moment, we’ll set a course for the nearest tachyon stream and resume full standard thrust. There will be mandatory meetings for all hands in the crew lounge over the coming turn, divided by shift, to discuss recent events. For now, though, we can all take a breath. We’ve made it. To the crew, thank you all for everything you do. To our passengers, thank you for hanging in there. Have a good turn.”

He thumbed off his comm again, and the quiet of the command deck quickly gave way to half a dozen separate conversations. Solaad sat back in his seat and basked in relief for a moment. Soon enough, he was going to have to decide how to deal with his unwanted obligations and loose ends, but they could wait for now.

He glanced down at Lucy, who was smiling ear to ear, staring up through the deckhead at the stars beyond. As relieved as everyone was feeling to be back in the open starways again, her joy seemed transcendental.

_Worry about it tomorrow,_ Solaad told himself, but he already felt the weight of hard choices and inevitable confrontations like stones in his belly.

TO BE

CONTINUED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it for this episode! I hope you've enjoyed it. It'll be a few months at least until I'm ready to start publishing episode four, but keep an eye on this space, because I'm nowhere near done telling this story! How will Lucy settle in with the crew of Hypereia? Who will be her allies, and who her enemies? Will she help the crew with the quest Hux has given them, or will she take the first opportunity to strike out on her own? Is she really free of Hux and the Trade Hub for good? And what about Owen? Will he even get the chance to learn of Lucy's escape from the Trade Hub, or is he pretty much doomed? Can't this guy catch a break?? And while we're at it, what's the deal with all these gods and scions? Are they for real?
> 
> Fear not, gentle reader, for all these questions and more will be answered... eventually.
> 
> In the meantime, if you have any thoughts you'd like to share on my work, I'd love to hear them. Reviews, constructive criticisms, questions on things that weren't quite clear, or anything you want to talk about that's even remotely related to this story would be welcome. Nothing helps me write like a healthy dose of feedback!


End file.
